Chapter Two

A pounding headache greeted Geralt as he groggily opened his eyes. It took a moment for them to bring the world into focus. The resulting view was bleak. He was in some sort of dungeon, hewn from stone. An iron door offered the only break in the otherwise homogenous walls, a single torch blazing nearby. Geralt was chained to the opposite wall, arms strung up to either side over his head, feet tied down beneath him. He had been stripped of his armor and weapons, left only with his trousers and boots. The cool air danced across his bare chest and icy stone clawed at his back. But it was not they that sent a chill running down his spine. The dark-haired man approached, eyes overflowing with hatred, desperation. This man had nothing to lose. This man was dangerous.

"Geralt of Rivia, awake at last. I was afraid my man had sent you into a coma. Guess his aim was a little better than I thought." He gestured to the man next to him, one of two flanking him on either side.

How long had he been out? From the way his shoulders ached, it could have been a couple days.

"No matter. Now that you're awake, we can finally have our little chat." The man's voice was cordial and calm, completely contrary to the situation.

"But you haven't even introduced yourself," Geralt responded sarcastically.

A flash in the man's eyes. "How rude of me." A disingenuous smile split his face. "I'm Captain Roth. Well, former captain, that is. You see, I was the one sent to capture your Cirilla. I was there on Temple Isle." He was becoming more and more agitated, his words growing angry. "I had her in my grasp. And then she was gone, disappeared into thin air! It didn't matter how many people swore it was the truth, someone had to take the blame. A lifetime of service dismissed in an instant. I was thrown to the wolves, forced to claw my way up the ranks all over again."

"If you think I'm going to tell you where Ciri is, you're sadly mistaken," Geralt interrupted. He would rather die than endanger Ciri. Not to mention he himself didn't know where she was anyway.

The disturbing smile returned. "Oh, no. I'm no longer interested in Cirilla. I'm not going to risk going after her again. Not when my position is precarious as it is."

The statement left Geralt slightly taken aback. Then who was he after?

"There's only one person besides Cirilla whose capture could earn me back my captaincy. Only one of high enough import to merit my immediate promotion—Triss Merigold. I know she's in Velen and I know you've contacted her. You're going to tell me where she is."

Geralt answered only with a stony silence. His relationship with Triss may have been complicated, but his answer to Roth was simple. Geralt would never betray Triss.

Roth's voice grew steely, a hard glint crept into his eyes. "I'm giving you one chance, witcher. Do not push me."

"It doesn't matter how many chances you give me, you'll never find her," Geralt shot back smoothly.

A pause. "Very well."

Without any perceptible signal from Roth, the crossbowman stepped forward, brandishing a small knife. Practiced hands drew it slowly across Geralt's chest, cutting as deeply as he could without damaging anything vital. The blade's edge was dull and jagged, intentionally uncared for to cause more pain. Geralt could even see caked-on blood and grime, no doubt carved from previous victims, and left to intimidate new ones.

Geralt ground his teeth to stifle a cry. It was going to take more than a mere flesh wound to make him waver. Besides, Geralt admitted to himself, he had been through much worse. The scars ensconcing his body were evidence of that.

Seemingly driven on by Geralt's lack of response, the man continued slicing, crisscrossing Geralt's torso with his knife and leaving a latticework of ruined skin and muscle. By the sixth cut, a soft groan escaped unbidden from between Geralt's lips. Sweat poured from his brow, a testament to his efforts at keeping silent. In the end, it only added to his misery as the salty drops stung their way down his chest.

The corners of Roth's mouth lifted ever so slightly. But the torture did not stop.

Geralt didn't know how long it lasted, it could have been minutes or hours. Blood ran freely down his body, a large pool of it gathering at his feet. He had long since stopped caring whether he cried out or not. His ears couldn't hear anything but the scrape of metal on flesh. His vision dimmed as his body grew cold and heavy, his head hanging limply. A white cascade of hair blocked Roth from his sight. From far away, a voice called out.

"Enough."

The single word tore Geralt from his stupor, though it quickly fought to take hold once more. Geralt lifted his head enough to look at Roth who was now joined by the man holding the knife. A knife that still cast off crimson droplets where it hung by the man's side.

Roth spoke again, the dark humor returning to his voice. "We wouldn't want Geralt to bleed out too quickly, now would we?" He jutted his chin. "Patch him up, boys." He crossed his arms as his two men left the room briefly. They returned in less than a minute carrying a small brazier between them, already ablaze. The bearers wore thick, leather gloves to protect their hands.

Geralt could feel the heat radiating from it as they drew near. Inside the fire were two long rods of metal glowing white-hot at the tips. Before Geralt could summon up the strength to even fear what was about to happen, the rods had been ripped free of the flames. Smoke rose from Geralt's skin as the metal seared into his flesh. Undimmed screams echoed through the chamber and Geralt reflexively struggled against his bonds, slamming himself into the wall behind him in an effort to escape the scorching heat. Bruises were already forming from the impact. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Geralt fought until his wrists were torn and frayed and small rivulets of blood streamed down his arms.

They didn't stop until every last wound had been cauterized. And Geralt's injuries had been extensive. The men hadn't bothered to burn only the lacerations either. By that time, Geralt's throat was raw and ragged to say nothing of his chest. Where smooth, albeit scarred, skin once reigned was now a mangled mass of charred skin and flesh that oozed and bubbled at the slightest provocation. Every breath was agonizing as it stretched the devastated area.

But it still didn't end there.

Obviously pleased with Geralt's discomfort, Roth strode up to him until they were face to face, his voice a mere whisper. "I told you I would only give you one chance, but now I offer you a second. Consider it a gift. Tell me where she is and I will set you free. Deny me again and you will know no other feeling than pain and suffering until I pry the information from your withered body. Then you will live out your days as a subject for my men to use to perfect their…methods. And I hear witchers have very long lives." He held Geralt's gaze with his cold, dark eyes.

It didn't matter what Roth threatened Geralt with, he had made his choice. He highly doubted that Roth wouldn't just continue torturing him anyway, sadistic as he seemed to be. No, Geralt would never turn on Triss. At the very least she was a dear friend. At the most—he wasn't sure. They had been lovers once, but had they been in love? It was a question for another time. Either way, his answer was the same.

Not trusting himself to speak, Geralt did the only thing he could think of and spat directly in Roth's face, willing as much contempt into his glare as he could muster, still panting from the pain.

Without taking his eyes from Geralt, Roth ordered, "Keep him warm boys, we wouldn't want Geralt to get cold through the night." He slowly backed to the door as his men brought forth the brazier and set it inches from Geralt.

The heat was still considerable and it only intensified the pain through Geralt's torso. Anger, frustration, and pain flared within Geralt, set him shaking. Roth's men exited the room leaving only the former captain at the door.

"See you in the morning, witcher." Roth laughed and turned from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Geralt clenched his teeth, too angry to give Roth the satisfaction of hearing his screams reverberate down the hall. Once a couple of minutes had passed however, he couldn't fight it any longer and let out a frustrated moan. At least the edge of the brazier wasn't touching Geralt, even when he let himself fully hang from the wall, though only just. It was a small consolation. The leather of his trousers protected his legs though it still felt like wading into a hot spring with a terrible sunburn. It was the skin just above the waistband that took the brunt of the flames. After twenty minutes, it started blistering and bubbling. It had been one of the only untouched areas on Geralt's abdomen, but now it matched the rest of his ruined chest. The cauterized wounds across his body came alive again and scalded him unendingly—a thousand angry wasps stinging and biting, a thousand werewolf claws ripping through him, a thousand honed blades driving into his chest. He had long since lost his voice.

Hours passed in agony. Even once the flames burned out, the smoldering cinders still offered an inimical heat, the small glow chuckling underneath feathery ashes. Geralt may as well have been on fire—a witch burning at the stake; burning so that Triss wouldn't. It wasn't remotely ideal, but he wouldn't willingly have them switch places. He wouldn't condemn Triss just to spare himself. She meant too much to him for that.

A lifetime came and went, Geralt flickering on the brink of consciousness. Every part of him wished he would just pass out and be free of the torment. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking over, a raging wildfire at his back. He wanted to jump, to escape to the cool waters below, but every time he gathered the will to leap, something yanked him back to the unforgiving earth with an equally unforgiving laugh. That nagging heat just wouldn't die.

It was in that state of near-delirium that Geralt heard it. A faint creak quickly sourced to the hinges on the rusting door. Soft footsteps approached. It wasn't until a lilting voice followed that Geralt realized what was happening.

Triss had come.