A/N: Still no proper smut, sorry :) But in case any of you miss it, I just posted a smut story featuring Geralt.

In this chapter, there's a bit of dialogue that was borrowed from the game, but that's not going to become a usual occurrence, I don't plan on replicating TW3.

"Oh, gods!" Yennefer huffed. "Are you always this restless, or are you just trying to punch me in my sleep?"

"I probably should have mentioned that I rarely sleep peacefully," Criss said and gave her an apologetic look.

"That's putting it mildly! I'm going to have bruises from sleeping next to you! Now I understand why Geralt left. No reasonable man who cares for his well-being would want to lie in bed with a mass of flailing arms and legs."

"Doubt that was it." Criss shrugged with a smile. "I always slept like a baby next to him."

"Did you now?" Yennefer's frown turned into an amused look.

"Mhm. Never knew how he did it." The corner of her mouth lifted in a crooked smile when she thought about Geralt in her bed. "Maybe he just knew how to put me properly to sleep." Her smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Yen rolled her eyes.

"I don't intend to use his methods, if that's your intention. Your attempts to sleep your way through this family stop here."

Criss snorted. "Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't kick you out of bed, but you lack the anatomy needed. Not to mention Ciri would surely kill me."

"That's your concern?" Yennefer shook her head and got out of bed. "No thought of Geralt?"

"He was third down the list of my list of worries for a non-existent problem."

After their morning beauty routine and getting dressed, they both went about their day. Criss to the herbalist, while Yennefer returned to a seedy brothel by the docks where her informant was bound to appear at some point.

The herbalist had prepared her order and arranged all the bottles and jars in an inconspicuous basket – the kind most women would carry to the market to bring back their goods. She thanked him for his care and made her way back to the Chameleon. As good as the herbalist's concoctions were, they were merely a basis for her magic. She took out each item, cast her spell, and labelled every single one accordingly. Teas, creams, tinctures, some for burns and sores, others for fungal infections or with antibiotic effect, so on and so forth. She also wrote instructions to accompany each medicine. Once this task was complete, she headed to Vilmerius Hospital.

Von Gratz was tending patients and giving out orders to the less experienced medics training under him. She pulled him aside, under the pretence of delivering the parcels.

"You got everything I asked for?" He slipped into his role effortlessly, playing the part for all curious ears. She was no one special, just a delivery girl, bringing him the cures he commissioned.

"Yes, sir. I made sure everything was labelled so no mistakes get made. The instructions are tucked in next to each jar and bottle. They made them very potent from what they told me, and very little can go a long way."

"Good." His eyes swept across the room, and she followed his gaze. "I have so many patients and this medicine is badly needed. There are even more upstairs and some come in daily from their home because there are simply no more beds. I'll try to stretch out the medicine to make them last as long as possible, but these might only be enough for a few days."

"If you're happy with them, I'll have more made by the end of the week. I won't let you run out."

"Thank you." He bore into her eyes. "And if you wish to help, we can always use more hands."

She looked around and debated with herself for a moment, before caving in to the soft side of her that threw caution to the wind. She could postpone her search for books a little while longer, and no one was waiting for her at the Chameleon. The only useful thing she could do there was to tend the bar. No matter how much she enjoyed helping Selise, getting drunks their poison of choice wasn't very fulfilling, and she could make a difference here. So she spent the rest of the day helping Von Gratz, nursing patients alongside the doctor.

It was late afternoon when she returned to the inn and, after a quick meal, she retired to her room to bathe and rest.

She was sketching an image of the street leading to the Bits when a knock on the door rang out. It was Yennefer, with an unhappy look on her face.

"Still no available rooms?" Criss asked, teasing.

"None. Seems I'm stuck sleeping another night next to a kicking mule." Her deadpan delivery had Criss chuckling as she moved out of the door to let Yen in.

"Did you find your informer?" she asked.

"Mhm." Her serious tone and look wiped the smile off Criss's face.

"Guess it's not good news."

"No. And for once I wish Geralt was here." Yennefer rolled her eyes. "Don't tell him I said that." She plopped down on the bed and gazed at the ceiling. "The way into the prison is dangerous. I can't do it alone. As much as I hate it, I need him now." She huffed. "Don't tell him I said that either."

"Is there no other way in?"

"None. The only way is through the old ruins under Oxenfurt into the sewer system, but it's been guarded ever since my contact broke out. And necrophages are bound to litter the passages since that's how the guards disposed of dead bodies. I have to wait for Geralt's return and hope they don't burn Margarita at the stake or torture her to death by then."

Criss hummed, tapping an index over her lips. A risky thought crawled into her mind.

"I might know someone who could help." Yen raised a curious eyebrow. "A friend."

The horses trodded through the puddles left from the previous day's downpour. The rain had stopped, but the skies were downcast and the threat of another storm loomed ever-present.

Close to the evening, Geralt and Ciri reached the bridge the merchant referenced. They were to make a right and head off the path to find the boatmaker, but even if they could see the lake bank, there was no trace of any living being, let alone a whole shipyard.

"Do you think the merchant had us for a ride?" Ciri asked, sulking.

Geralt shook his head. He might have gotten a strange feeling off Gaunter O'Dimm, but he had no doubt he told them the truth about the boatmaker. Urging Roach on, he kept his eyes open for any signs of the man they were looking for.

As soon as he put some distance between him and the main road, his medallion hummed close to his chest. The further he went, the more violently it shook on its chain. Still, he couldn't see anything. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a round amulet – the Eye of Nehaleni, a gift from Keira. The incantation was simple, and he waved the amulet over the path ahead. The illusion broke, and they both saw a large wooden hut, smoke rising from its chimney, and, more importantly, next to it, a shipyard and a large ferry.

A man, short and stocky with a rich grey moustache, came out of the hut carrying an axe, wielding it menacingly. Geralt dismounted and raised both hands to signal his peaceful intentions. He had no cause to pick a fight or scare the man. If what the merchant told him was true, the boatmaker had ample reason to be fearful of strangers.

"We seek no harm. My daughter and I need passage to Bald Mountain for the revelries. Nothing more."

The man exhaled, relieved, and put down his axe.

"How did you find me? I was promised no one could stumble across my home as long as the illusion was in place."

"Gaunter pointed us in your direction. Said you wouldn't mind some more customers," Geralt replied.

The man paled slightly but replied in a friendly tone. "Of course. Always happy for more business." Yet he looked anything but happy.

"Do you have a boat we could use? And a place to leave our horses while we're away? We'll pay a fair price for them, of course," Ciri asked.

The man shook his head. "Not here. The ferry is the only boat and it'll leave for the celebrations tomorrow. It'll come to Oreton to pick up anyone who wishes to travel to Bald Mountain. Meanwhile, you can find lodgings in the village."

Ciri nodded and thanked the man. They left the magically hidden shipyard and, as they looked behind, the illusion refreshed itself.

"What do you make of that?" Ciri asked.

"I'm not sure. But I have a feeling that man will live to regret whatever deal he made with the merchant of mirrors."

"I don't know about you, but I can't get that eerie tune out of my mind. It was just a whistle, but it creeped me out, like slimy lizards and bugs crawled over my skin." Ciri shivered. "Horrible!"

"I know what you mean." But Geralt wasn't thinking of bugs and lizards, he was thinking of his trip to the Underworld. The same uneasy feeling had coiled in his stomach then as it did now, and he couldn't help but wonder what price the boatmaker would have to pay for the merchant's help.

They settled in at the inn in Oreton. There were enough vacancies for them to get separate accommodations and he ordered a bath be delivered to his room that evening after supper. They each carried their bags to their respective chambers and met back down in the tavern afterwards.

Ciri was already seated at a small table in a corner of the tavern. Even here, where there were no Nilfgaardian soldiers, she was careful to keep a low profile to not draw attention. Geralt joined her table and ordered food and drinks for both of them.

"So, what do you think? Are our supplies enough for the rest of the journey, or should we buy more?" she asked him.

"Depends which route we'll be taking. If return the same way we came, we should be fine with what we have. There are plenty of villages along to way and inns that offer a warm meal, but if we go to Vizima, the shortest way is through Crookback Bog, which means we need to stock up before we leave. I passed by there recently and I've seldom seen such poverty."

"I know. Parents with too many mouths to feed were sending their kids on the Trail of Sweets. I met a little girl there." Once again she looked weighed down by the world, her eyes world-weary, too early for her young age. "I haven't decided yet to go to Vizima, but we'd better buy some extra food, just in case."

He clasped her hand to pull her out of her gloom.

"Tomorrow we'll be on our way to the Sabbath. It'll be the end of the Crones and Imlerith. Focus on that." He thought of the children who died while he tried to save the Baron's wife. "You can't bring back the dead," he told her, but it was just as much a statement meant to ease his own heavy conscience.

They ate and listened in on conversations from other tables. Villagers complained there as they did everywhere else. The war and the taxes were weighing them down, but they were more fortunate than others and still had enough to make it out of the winter. They spoke of villages where not a single cat or dog could be seen, the reason obvious to anyone who knew of the famine. Some even resorted to eating tree bark, bugs, anything they could keep down, anything that dulled the hunger. There were rumours of villages where children and elders went missing over the winter, but none wanted to believe them. Geralt knew better. He had been through such places and met such men, driven mad by hunger, more beast than human. These weren't rumours, these were nightmares. Living, breathing, at least until he got to them. Then they joined their victims underground.

The more they heard, the more Ciri's shoulders slumped. He had to draw her out of this dark mood. It wasn't doing her any favours, and it was a bad mindset for the eve of battle. He wracked his mind for something, anything cheerful, but Velen was not a place for anything but dread and horror, starting with its deities and ending with its godsawful weather. Happier things belonged in better settings. Then a hilarious thought passed through his mind.

"You know what's missing from this place?" he asked with a smile in the corner of his mouth.

She looked at him with sad eyes and shook her head.

"Dandelion and his songs," he whispered conspiratorially. "They could cheer up even this sad bunch."

She snorted and looked at him, incredulous. "Never, and I mean never, did I think I'd hear you utter those words. He'd preen like a peacock if he heard you!"

"I'd never hear the end of it. And that's why we're never going to tell him I ever said such a thing," he said, grinning.

"I make no promises. I may require a bribe to keep that information to myself." She laughed. "And since when do you listen to music, anyway?"

"When I was away, you know where, there was music everywhere. People had devices with them that could record and play music at will. And the variety was amazing. Anything you could imagine, thousands, even millions of songs. It was hard to escape and I think I just grew accustomed to it."

"The noise must have been infernal, with everyone listening to something different."

"Not really. They had these things you'd put in your ears so only you could hear it."

"Ah, reminds me of a place I travelled to. They had these metal plates in their heads, said they could hear music and talk to each other through them, but I never got to experience it myself."

"Metal plate in my head sounds too extreme, but the earbuds were nice. Although I had to turn down the sound or my head would ring."

Her gaze swept to the ceiling and he could see her imagination put to work. She smiled, and he smiled back at her, happy to have moved her thoughts to better things.

"I just can't picture you bobbing your head to some tune." She poked at his chest. "And Criss said you danced." Her finger poked him again, but there was a wry smile on her lips. "Was that true?"

He nodded with a smile. "Believe it or not, it happened."

"I know I was crass about it before, but how in Melitele's name did she convince you?" she asked, still grinning.

"She asked," he replied plainly.

"I can't believe that's all it took!" She laughed, loud and whole-heartily.

"Fine, I'll admit I refused her at first. But I was smart enough to change my mind. And it helped that I knew she'd never laugh at me, no matter how badly I did."

"Did you step on her feet? Trip her?" He shook his head after each question, wondering if she really thought him that clumsy.

"I wasn't that bad. In fact, she thought I did a good job. Good enough to earn myself a kiss." A little more than a kiss if he was honest, but those were not the kind of details he was eager to share with his daughter.

"Hah! I'd have paid good coin to see you."

"You might yet have a chance to see it when we get back." He waved a hand. "If she'll still have me after leaving without a word."

"You think she won't?"

"I hope she will, but I don't want to take her for granted. I love her too much for that."

A heavy silence settled as his words sunk in and Ciri's eyes widened.

"You love her?" Ciri asked with genuine surprise.

"I know it might not be what you want to hear, but yes, I do," he said. "She's not just another fling."

"So you're really serious about her. That's unexpected."

For a silent moment, she bore into his eyes, thoughtful but without the anger or disappointment he had come to expect. Perhaps she was finally understanding that this was what he truly wanted, but he had no wish to push his luck with her, so he went back to lightening the mood, leaving serious conversations for another time.

"Anyway, this is all a moot point unless Dandelion manages to sing something remotely pleasant," he said with a wave of his hand.

"But you just said you liked his songs!" she said, wagging a finger at him with a small chuckle.

"I never said such a thing. And I'll deny it if you spread such calumnious rumours."

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, and Ciri's mood remained cheery. By the end, she ventured to socialize with a few young women under the guise of gathering information. He left her to it and went up to his room. His bath was waiting for him and the water was still lukewarm. Not ideal, but relaxing either way.

He scrubbed himself clean, then laid back in the tub, his head resting on the edge and his gaze on the plastered ceiling. After an evening spent partly talking and thinking about Criss, he yearned for her presence. So he let his imagination take him to another place. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the apples, caramel, and lime. Delicate fingers traced the scars on his chest, lingering on the three spots that marred his skin, then down his abdomen. She did that often and, just as often, he wondered what ran through her mind. Did they remind her of a dark time in her life? Or when they first met? Or of another path she could have taken? He chased the questions away and relaxed into the sweet reverie. The imaginary fingers caressed down, tracing his sex lines, following their path. He moaned. Just the memory of her was enough to send him on a tailspin. She would follow that thick vein down his cock before stroking it. But she'd seldom stroke it. More often than not, her tongue would be the one to trace his length, firm and wet. Warm against him. Inviting. His own hand grasped the base of his cock and caressed up to the tip, then stopped, while he imagined her lips wrapped around him snug. He groaned. What was he doing? Was he really touching himself like a horny adolescent harping of his crush? This was hardly the time for it. Tomorrow they would start the last stretch of their journey, and he needed to be focused on the upcoming fight. Both his life and Ciri's could depend on it. No, he had more self-control than this. He got out of the tub, dried himself and got into bed, trying not to taunt himself with more lewd thoughts.

The ferry arrived a little before sundown. It looked to be even larger than he had previously estimated, and he was thankful they didn't need to leave the horses behind, as it was accommodating enough to fit everyone and whatever animals each brought. Quite a few villagers were undertaking the journey to the Sabbath, most bringing with them livestock – likely to be sacrificed in honour of the Ladies.

Ciri had made friends with a few young girls the previous night and after securing her horse, she went off to join their group. She had decided this was the best method of scouting ahead, so they would know what to expect when they arrived.

Geralt sat back, leaning against the side of the ferry, and listened to the conversations around him, doing a bit of scouting of his own.

He learned that depending on how pleased the Ladies were with their sacrifices, they would bestow upon them their gifts – magical acorns that guaranteed plentiful harvests for the next season. It was something they were all in dire need of and thus they were willing to sacrifice even more than usual. One man even wanted to bring his own child as a willing sacrifice, but his wife had threatened to cut off his family jewels in his sleep if he dared lay a finger on the little one. Geralt pursed his lips and moved his attention to a different conversation, then another. The topics ranged from eager anticipation for the festivities to talk of the crops they would sow next season, but there wasn't anything of particular use to him. Familiar footsteps approached, then Ciri's voice rang out in greeting.

"Did you learn anything of interest?" he asked her.

"I'd say so." He quirked an eyebrow in anticipation and she leaned forward, resting on her forearms on the ledge next to him. "The Ladies seldom come down to partake in the festivities with the commoners. They remain at the summit and watch from above. I expect Imlerith will be there with them."

"Then that's where we'll need to be."

"The way up is guarded, and no one is allowed up, aside from three young lads and lasses who will be the Ladies' special guests for the night. I aim to be one of the lasses."

"Hmm, I'm far from what anyone would call young. I'll have to gain passage some other way. I'm not letting you go up there alone."

She nodded and looked into the distance.

"You're not going back to your friends?" he asked.

"I think I'll keep an old man company a little while longer." He smiled and looked ahead as well.

The ferry docked in the small port amidst a slew of other boats and ferries. One after the other, the guests hopped onto the wooden deck and headed up the slope. The festivities were already in full swing, music and voices echoed off the mountainsides, fires burned bright, casting a glow all around, and the aroma of roasted meats wafted down to the waterside.

Geralt and Ciri led their horses off the ferry and tied them next to the docks in an enclosure near the shore. He pulled out the special sword he had stowed in Roach's saddlebag and strapped the scabbard to his back before throwing on his cloak to hide it. Ciri looked at her own sword for a moment, then held it out for Geralt to take.

"I doubt they expect the Ladies' special guests to go up there armed. I'll need you to keep this safe for me until I'm granted access."

He nodded and secured the second sword next to his own.

They made their way up the hill with sure steps. His eyes drifted down. Hundreds of tracks leading up. For a moment, he wondered what these people would make of them once they slew their deities, but he quickly brushed it aside. The Ladies were anything but the benevolent entities their worshippers believed them to be.

Once they were at the top of the slope, they saw an array of tents, totems, campfires, and a throng of men and women basking in the glow of the fires. A playful song sung in a thin, boyish voice drew his attention. His eyes searched for the source and soon found it to be the little godling, Johnny. He was perched atop a rock overlooking one of the fires and Geralt made his way to him, with Ciri in tow.

"A child here?" she asked.

"He's no child. A godling. Might help us."

"See you've found your lass," Johnny said.

"I did. This is Ciri."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," she said.

"I've actually seen you before in the marshes, but you were running and I was... erm, otherwise occupied." He gave an awkward smile.

"Didn't expect to see you at the Ladies' Sabbath. I thought there was no love lost between you," Geralt said.

"That 'bout sums it up, but each year they extend the invitation and I can't refuse. I must attend and pay homage or face their anger. So I come, stay 'til morning, then scamper off. You here for the festivities?"

"Not quite. Looking for an elf. Heard he attends each year. You didn't happen to see him?"

"Big bloke in full armour?" Geralt nodded. "He's up the peak alright. Special guest of the Ladies, but you'll likely not get to him. Only way up is the gate and that's locked. Old Thecla's got the key and she'll not give it to anyone."

"Maybe I can convince her."

"She might." He pointed at Ciri. "But not you." Johnny looked him up and down with his round, hazel eyes. "Only ones allowed up are strapping young lads and comely lasses. You're neither and there's no use lying to old Thecla. But if you'd be smart, you'd not go at all. Either of you. There's no messing with the Ladies. Or the big bloke."

"We must," Ciri said.

"If you must, your best bet's to ask for the trial and win the key. Old Thecla's in that big tent yonder. I'd wish you luck, but you'll need more than that."

"Thanks, Johnny. If we succeed, come morning, you won't have anything to fear in the bogs. Either way, take care of yourself."

Johnny's eyes followed them until they were out of sight inside the old woman's tent. There was a line of young men and women leading up to the back of the tent. Before them, in a beautifully carved wooden armchair, sat a white-haired woman bent under the weight of her age. On a table to the side, braided flower wreaths lay amidst bowls of fruit. Another younger woman stood by her and she placed the wreaths as crowns on the heads of those the old woman deemed worthy to meet the Ladies. The girls who had made friends with Ciri in Oreton were ahead of them. They were all dismissed to their great disappointment, and they sulked as they walked past them and out of the tent.

Soon it was Ciri's turn. Only one wreath remained on the table. The old woman drew in a breath of air.

"She smells young, fresh. Tell me, how does she look?" Thecla asked the woman standing by her.

"Tall, slim, ashen hair, striking green eyes. A beauty." Ciri's cheeks turned rosy.

The old woman inhaled again, loudly. "Hasn't known a man." Geralt cringed, and Ciri turned bright red, avoiding his gaze. This was entirely too much information for him.

"She can go up," the woman said in the end. "Turn the rest away."

"I wish to go up as well," Geralt spoke up.

Thecla sniffed the air. "Death, rot, decay. He's old and sterile. Send him away."

"I wish to go through the trial to win the key," he said, remembering Johnny's advice.

The woman scoffed. "You wish to vie for the Defier's Oren?" The corners of her thin lips curled down in disgust. "So be it." She extended her hand and the younger woman grabbed it to help her up. They walked out into the cold night air and up a path to the edge of a cliff. The old woman stopped and fished a small copper coin from a pocket. She held it up between two fingers - Falka's likeness depicted on the side of the coin – then dropped it into the abyss below.

"Retrieve it and I shall grant you passage."

He clenched his jaw and looked at Ciri. "Wait for me." She nodded as he walked up to the cliff edge. Below him lay a pool of water, no way to tell how deep. He scoured the surroundings for a way down and spotted a carved staircase in the side of the rock face. Without a second thought, he descended to the water's edge.

Just as he was preparing to dive in, a beastly roar and thunderous steps hurdled towards him. A fiend. The next moment, his blade was drawn and ready, and his eyes scoured the nearby trees. The beast was making its way through the thin saplings, bending the flexible trunks under its enormous body.

"Aren't you a big boy," Geralt joked. "They've been feeding you well here."

The monster launched itself at him, but the witcher ducked out of the way before the beast could change direction. His sword swiped the flank of the fiend. A deafening roar rang out, and he wondered if he wasn't drawing too much attention through this challenge. If he didn't kill it quickly, they might risk losing the element of surprise. He jumped aside and cut into the fiend's flesh once again, but the beast was large, and it would take more than that to put it down. He had to deal a decisive blow.

He eyed it with care; it was pawing at the ground, preparing to launch at him. Its head was shaking from side to side, the antlers decorating its crown, swinging menacingly. A weapon, but also an opportunity for the bold – or better said, for the crazy. He smirked as the beast came at him at full speed. His heels dug into the ground and he pushed up. He landed with one foot on a bony antler, the other slightly above it, but didn't rest there. With graceful - albeit completely insane – movements, he climbed the rest of the way as the beast tried to shake him off. His sword plunged deep into the thick, furry nape. He pushed it in up to the hilt and with a low groan, the monster gave its dying breath and collapsed under him.

Bracing one foot on the beast's back, he drew out his blade. This was certainly a new tactic for slaying a fiend. One Vesemir would scold him for and probably swipe him over the back of his head while telling him how much of a reckless idiot he was. He smirked and wiped the blade clean before sheathing it and jumping into the murky water to retrieve the coin. After looking around briefly to make sure there weren't any more creatures lurking in the water, he dove to the bottom and began his search. Plenty of junk lay on the silty mud, broken mugs, shoes, and he had to sift through it all. He broke the surface of the water, drew in a fresh breath of air and sunk back down. A faint glimmer caught his eye, and he swam toward it. The oren. Finally, he was one step closer to his goal.

He climbed the steep steps to the top of the cliff where Ciri waited for him.

"What the hell was down there? I heard something, but it was too dark to see anything." Not having undergone the transformations, she couldn't see as well as him.

"A fiend. Big one. Better that you didn't see the fight."

"Why?" she asked with a confused expression.

"I took an... unorthodox approach to killing it. Wouldn't want you getting ideas."

"I see." She smirked.

"Let's get the key," he said before she could say anything more.

Thecla was once again in the tent, laying back in her wooden makeshift throne. The woman accompanying her looked surprised to see him back, and he was sure he was meant to be dead at the bottom of that hill – food for their hungry beast, just like all the other defiers before him.

After sniffing the air and grimacing, the old woman handed a golden key to the younger one.

"Lead them up to the gate." She turned her blank eyes to him as if she could see behind the milky shroud covering them. "Show the Oren to the Gatekeeper. Now get out of my sight. Your stench is nauseating."

He didn't need to be told twice and, with Ciri at his side, they climbed the rest of the way up to the gate. The woman merely touched the key to the surface of the wooden door and it swung open. It was a magical lock meant to keep anyone from forcing their way into the Ladies' sanctuary.

"You'll go the rest of the way alone," the woman said and closed the gate after leading them in.

They went in, past the gate, and found themselves in a dark cave with no way but forward. A dim light flickered in the distance. He reached over his shoulder and unstrapped Ciri's sword, handing it back to her.

"Ready?" he asked her. She nodded, her focus on the road ahead.

He took point, and she followed, both ready to make use of their swords at the first sign of trouble.

The cave passage widened into a make-shift hall where a fat sylvan mumbled odd rhymes to himself. He heard them approach and took stock of them, his eyes catching on the wreath sitting atop Ciri's head. The sylvan cleared his throat, taking an official tone.

"Ah, the third and final guest. No need for a name, you'll receive a new one atop the mountain. You may pass."

Ciri took a few steps towards the end of the hall and Geralt attempted to follow, but the sylvan jumped down from his perch and landed right in his path.

"I said she can pass. Not you." He shook his horned head as he spoke.

Taking the Defier's Oren out of his pocket, Geralt tossed it to the sylvan.

"I've won the right to go up there. Passed the Trial, been deemed worthy and all that."

The gatekeeper caught the coin, looked at Falka's likeness on its reverse, and grinned.

"You've won something, but it's not a pass to the summit. This here is a death sentence."

No sooner had the words left his mouth that the earth shook under Geralt's feet. He lost his footing and fell back. The sylvan was hurdling towards him with unexpected speed, considering his girth. Geralt rolled out of the way and picked himself off the ground, his sword drawn.

The gatekeeper roared, but in the next moment he took on a look of surprise and gazed down. The tip of Ciri's blade was sticking out of his gut. It was the last thing he saw as he collapsed face-first onto the ground.

"You're getting slow, old man," Ciri teased as she pulled her sword from the sylvan's back.

"I've already been called old, ugly, and smelly today. Only seems fair to add slow to that list." He sheathed his blade. "Let's get to the top before we miss our chance."

The trek through the cave was short, and they came out the other end on the side of the cliff overlooking the festivities below. With still a way to go, they made haste, following the path up.

As they got close, the sound of the music, laughter, and moans grew louder. This was the last stretch of their long journey. The summit, with its towering oak, laid right around the next bend. They both drew their weapons and readied themselves for the confrontation.

The Crones were busy adding the last touches to their human brew, tasting the bloody broth while, at the foot of the gnarled old roots, on a makeshift throne, sat Imlerith, cup in hand, watching the erotic display of a succubus and a boy with a wreath crown. Countless other succubi acted as servants beside him, feeding the elf and whispering in his ear words of praise and delight.

"Looks like the party is in full swing," Geralt said, making his way into view, with Ciri by his side.

Imlerith looked unsurprised by their presence. In retrospect, his confidence should have been the first sign that something was wrong, but at the time, Geralt was only concerned with ending their existence.

"You're right on time," Imlerith said. "How fortuitous you've come! It spares me the bother of tracking you down. Eredin will be pleased with the treat I'll bring him."

"Thought I'd ask you for a dance. Never got a proper chance last time," Geralt said, twisting the blade in an arc in front of him, his eyes moving from one target to the next.

"We told you he'd come," Brewess replied in a honeyed voice. "Saw it in the water."

"And he brought the girl with him," Weavess added.

"The taste of her is unforgettable. Elder Blood comes to sweeten my brew."

"Only thing you'll taste is my steel," Ciri replied, glaring at them, sword raised, poised to attack.

"Are you ready to fulfil your destiny, little Swallow? We have a gilded cage all prepared for you and you can sing your songs of spring," Imlerith taunted.

"I won't sing, but I'll make you scream before I kill you."

Imlerith laughed. "Still feisty, I see. No matter." As he stood and reached for his shield and mace, the succubi made themselves scarce, dragging the dazed boy with them. He turned to the Crones. "Be careful not to kill her."

The Crones shed the illusion of their human form and turned into the monsters they truly were. What happened next was a blurry mess of steel and spells, with Ciri drifting in and out of space and time, moving from one side of the battlefield to the other, slashing at them. The Brewess was the first to receive a taste of Ciri's steel while Geralt fended off both the Whispess and Imlerith. They were all intent on getting rid of Geralt first, but he was having none of it. He ducked and twisted, moving in a deadly dance, parrying Imlerith's strikes and cutting at whatever Crone was closest. Ciri joined in, picking off Imlerith, distracting him from his previous target and giving Geralt a breather.

The Weavess disbanded in a murder of crows that shot at him from a dozen different directions. The attack shattered his Quen, and the Whispess launched a spell before he could shield himself again. Out of instinct, he raised his sword, catching the spell on the blade. The runes shone upon impact, and he felt the blade grow heavier. This sword can absorb and reflect spells, was what Criss had told him. With a flick of his wrist, he flung the spell back at the Crone, adding all his rage to it. It sliced through the air, a mirror to his steel, and hit the Whispess, slicing her clean in half. Her dying shriek attracted the others' attention and Ciri used the opportunity to behead the Brewess.

Two down, two to go.

He threw up Quen again and moved against Imlerith, while Ciri launched herself at the Weavess.

The elf kept his distance, gazing thoughtfully at him and his blade.

"Interesting weapon you have, witcher."

"Come closer, I'll show it to you proper," Geralt taunted, moving in an arc around Imlerith.

Without wasting much thought, the elf swung his mace at the witcher, but Geralt sidestepped and slashed at him. The sword landed on Imlerith's shield, leaving a visible dent in it. Imlerith used the heft of the shield to push him back, putting distance between them.

Geralt's eyes searched the battlefield to see how Ciri was faring. She was at a stalemate with the last Crone. While she dashed towards her, the Weavess turned into a cloud of feathers and always escaped her. Neither could get the upper hand on the other. Distracted by his care for Ciri's wellbeing, he almost stood in the path of the elf's next strike. At the last moment, he evaded Imlerith's mace. He cursed and hit the elf with a well-timed Aard, knocking him on his ass. This was his chance. He jumped, sword first, hoping to end him then and there, but once again was met by the elf's shield. Pressing one foot into the shield, he raised his sword, looking for an opening to strike.

Still on the ground, cowering behind his shield, Imlerith let out an angry roar, followed by a slew of words that were neither Common Speach nor Ellyon. It sent a familiar chill down Geralt's back. Darkness swept around them and drained into the elf.

Before he could wrap his head around the turn of events, Imlerith vanished from underneath him, only to appear behind him. His mace twisted and Geralt heard the blow before he felt it. Without even turning, he cast Quen, but even if the shield took most of the damage, the blow knocked the air from his lungs and flung him face-first into the dirt. He rolled to the side instinctively as the mace crashed into the soil where he was seconds before. Another roll, another blow that was a near miss.

Imlerith – or whatever creature was inside him – wasn't even giving him the chance to get up, and each blow landed closer than the one before. Soon, he would be caught under the spiked head of the mace.

A dazzling green light appeared to the side of the elf, then sparks shot as Ciri's blade collided with his armour, but left no mark. She gritted her teeth and dashed to the other side, swinging again. The sword slashed through empty air and a flurry of feathers swarmed her. With another burst of light, she disappeared, but her attack distracted Imlerith enough for Geralt to regroup. Casting Quen once again, he got to his feet and launched himself at the elf. His sword cut through the side of the thick armour and his blade coated itself in dark blood. He followed the strike with an Igni, heating up the armour until he could smell the roasted flesh and Imlerith roared in pain. Giving him no time to recover, he slashed at his hand, making him drop his shield.

From every cut, blood dripped, and black smoke curled up. The elf looked at his severed hand in disbelief before meeting Geralt's eyes. It was the last thing he saw. Geralt's next strike cut off his head and the dark smoke seeped out with a wail.

The witcher didn't waste a moment and moved to his next target – the remaining Crone. She and Ciri were continuing their deadly dance. He threw down a Yrden, and the crows reformed the ugly shape of the Weavess. With a swift strike, Ciri's sword plunged into her gut and she crumpled to the ground and gave her last dying breath.

Geralt sighed a breath of relief and came to Ciri's side. She kicked the Crone's side to make sure she was dead before drawing out her blade.

"You can never be too careful," she said.

Geralt lowered his sword with a crash over the Crone's neck. Ciri gave him a dirty look, and he shrugged.

"If they're missing a head, then they're surely dead."

"Did Vesemir impart that wisdom?"

"No. Lambert." He grinned.

"Should have figured." She rolled her eyes and wiped her blade.

He looked around at the corpses sprawled on the ground, then at the gnarled roots of the oak. The succubi had made themselves scarce, but the boy was lying crouched between the roots of the tree. Geralt checked to see if he was still breathing and heard the faint thump of his heart. He was alive, but dosed or magically put to sleep. There was no point in forcefully waking him. He'd leave him to sleep off the spell.

It wasn't yet dawn, but the sky was growing lighter. They still had a little time before they had to descend the mountain to announce the Crones' demise and potentially face the wrath of the villagers, who were expecting their acorns.

He returned to Ciri's side. She was sitting on a tree root at the edge of the cliff, staring down at the world. He placed a hand on her shoulder and sat beside her. Despite their hard-won victory, there wasn't any mirth to her.

"It's done. You avenged Vesemir."

She pursed her lips. "Then how come it seems meaningless?" He raised an eyebrow at her and she waved a hand at the expanse before her. "Imlerith is dead, the Crones are dead, but the world hasn't changed. Some new evil will take their place."

"Won't happen overnight. Might not happen without guidance. Change takes time and perseverance."

She sighed. "I've been thinking... We should go to Vizima before returning to Novigrad."

She looked at him, and he simply nodded, looking ahead at the dark horizon.

"We can take one of the other ferries. Whichever gets us closer to Vizima, then through the bogs. We'll be there in a few days," he said.

"You don't mind?"

"Mind what?"

"The delay."

"No, I'm the one who suggested it. He's your father, and it's your right to speak to him if you wish." He looked at the marshy terrain they would cross, but his mind was on the darkness that took over Imlerith. He had an additional motive to want to speak to the Emperor, even if he didn't plan on telling Ciri about it. If what he suspected was true, this was no longer a fight against the Aen Elle, darker forces vied to take control of Ciri and her powers. They needed all the allies they could get, the Emperor included.

Ciri's head rested on his shoulder. She gave a heavy sigh and nudged him.

"Ready to go?"

He shook his head and smiled. "I'm old, or have you forgotten? I need a little more time."

His arm wound around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. "Let's stay a little while longer. Let that kid wake up. And we can watch the sun come up from the top of the world."