Chapter 3: The Swallow's Flight
:.:.:./
Ciri ran.
The trees blurred around her as she stumbled through the dense foliage, her small hands clawing at branches that snagged her cloak and scraped at her skin. Her chest burned with every breath, her lungs raw from exhaustion and fear. The world was spinning—too loud, too silent, too much. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the panic flooding her mind.
She didn't dare look back.
Her legs felt like lead, every step heavier than the last, but she couldn't stop. She wouldn't stop. To stop meant death—or worse.
Run. Run.
Her thoughts were a desperate chant as her feet carried her deeper into the dark wilderness. The fallen kingdom of Cintra loomed somewhere behind her, a broken memory she refused to let herself revisit. Its screams still echoed in her mind—the clash of steel, the roaring fires, the smell of blood.
Finally, her legs gave out.
Ciri fell to her knees, her hands sinking into the cold earth. Her shoulders trembled violently, and her breath came in ragged sobs. She curled into herself, tucking her knees to her chest as if she could make herself disappear—vanish from the cruel, unrelenting world that had stolen everything from her.
For a long time, she wept.
Thick tears streaked down her face, falling in silent droplets onto the dirt below. Her sobs were raw and broken, filled with the grief of a child who had lost far too much. The night air was bitterly cold, biting at her tear-stained cheeks, but Ciri hardly noticed.
In her muddled, trauma-filled mind, only one thought remained.
"Harry…" she whimpered softly.
The name escaped her lips before she could stop it, her voice barely above a whisper. The image of him flashed in her mind—the strange boy who had appeared when no one else had. The boy who had fought for her. Saved her.
"Harry…" she said again, a pitiful plea to the one person who had shown her kindness amidst the horror.
Her small fingers clutched at her cloak as her body shook, every breath a struggle. She felt so alone, so terribly alone, and she wished—more than anything—that Harry was there.
The sound of footsteps snapped her head up.
Ciri froze, her heart lurching in her chest. She scrambled to her feet, swaying slightly as she turned toward the noise. Her wide eyes scanned the shadows between the trees, her breath caught painfully in her throat.
A boy stepped into view.
He couldn't have been much older than her—twelve, perhaps thirteen—with a skinny frame and wild, dirt-smudged hair. His clothes were tattered and ill-fitting, and he carried a makeshift bow slung over his shoulder. His face was expressionless as he stared at her silently, his dark eyes unreadable.
Ciri flinched instinctively, her body tensing. She didn't know whether to run or scream. But the boy didn't move, didn't speak. He just… watched her.
After a moment, he raised his hand and motioned for her to follow.
Ciri hesitated, her gaze flickering back to the dark forest behind her. She didn't trust him—how could she?—but fear and shock numbed her instincts. Something about the boy's calm, almost detached presence made her pause.
And so, with trembling hands, she took a hesitant step forward. Then another.
The boy turned and began walking, his steps soundless against the forest floor. Ciri followed him, her heartbeat still loud in her ears. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or snap of a twig.
After a short while, the boy stopped abruptly. He crouched low, pulling the bow from his shoulder and nocking a makeshift arrow. Ciri watched as he drew it back, his arms steady despite the crude weapon.
A sharp snap rang through the clearing.
Ciri flinched as the arrow struck a rat nearby, the small creature falling limp. The boy stood, walking over to retrieve his kill. He held it by its tail and turned to face her, holding it out in silent offering.
Ciri recoiled, shaking her head. "You… you eat it," she said, her voice trembling. Whether from the cold or fear, she couldn't tell.
The boy shrugged and turned, leading her further into the woods.
They arrived at a small clearing where a pitiful campsite lay hidden amongst the trees. A crude fire pit sat at the center, surrounded by a few logs and stones. The boy dropped the rat and began to prepare it wordlessly, his movements swift and practiced. He struck flint against a rock, coaxing a small flame to life.
Ciri watched him in silence, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She was still shaking, but she was grateful for the fire's warmth when it finally crackled to life.
The boy roasted the rat over the flame, turning it carefully on a stick. When it was done, he pulled it back and held it out to her again.
Ciri hesitated, her stomach twisting. The smell made her queasy, but hunger gnawed at her painfully. After a long moment, she took the offered stick, muttering a quiet, "Thank you."
The boy said nothing, already tearing into his half of the rat with an indifference that told Ciri he was no stranger to hunger.
As they ate, she studied him carefully. "Who are you?" she asked softly.
The boy didn't answer.
"Do you live out here?" she pressed, her voice small. "Why?"
Still no response.
"Do you know him?" Ciri's voice grew more urgent. "The man I'm looking for—he has white hair and carries two swords. He's a witcher."
The boy paused, his dark eyes flicking to her for a moment before returning to his meal. He didn't speak, and Ciri's hope faltered.
Eventually, the silence between them grew comfortable, the fire crackling softly as the night deepened. Ciri shivered again, her fingers numb from the cold. The boy noticed and frowned slightly. After a moment, she saw him rub his hands together, his breath visible in the frigid air.
Without thinking, Ciri tugged off one of her gloves and held it out to him.
"Here," she said quietly.
The boy blinked at her, clearly surprised, before taking the glove. He slipped it on, flexing his fingers experimentally. For the first time, something resembling gratitude flickered in his expression.
They set out again at dawn, walking side by side in silence. Ciri was still tired, but the strange boy led with a quiet confidence that reassured her. She couldn't say why she trusted him—perhaps because he was just a child, like her.
After a while, she spotted something through the trees. Smoke. Tents. People.
"A refugee camp!" she exclaimed, her heart leaping in hope. She turned to the boy with a small smile. "Come on!"
She ran ahead, stumbling through the undergrowth as she made her way toward the camp. The sounds of voices grew louder, and relief swelled in her chest.
But when she turned back, the boy was gone.
Her heart sank as she scanned the forest, searching for any sign of him. "Wait… where did you go?" she called softly.
The woods were silent.
Ciri's shoulders slumped, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. For a moment, she considered going back to look for him, but the sounds of the camp drew her forward.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and walked toward the tents, her mind lingering on the silent boy who had helped her.
/.:.:.:.;../
The encampment sprawled ahead of Ciri, a collection of worn tents, makeshift fires, and huddled figures that blurred together into a murky sea of grey and brown. Smoke clung to the air, mixing with the faint scent of stale bread and boiling broth.
Ciri walked through it cautiously, her small hands clutching the edges of her tattered cloak. She kept her head down, her green eyes darting nervously as she passed groups of refugees who stared at her with hollow, sunken expressions.
"Don't stand out," she reminded herself, her grandmother's voice echoing in her head.
The people here were survivors—those who had fled Cintra's burning streets, leaving behind homes, families, and hope. Though they shared her pain, there was something frightening about the way they looked at the world—tired, bitter, and hardened by loss.
Ciri's stomach growled faintly, and she realized she hadn't eaten since the night before. She followed the faint smell of food toward a long line where refugees stood patiently, each holding battered bowls or chipped mugs.
Without realizing it, she cut in near the front of the line, too distracted by the steaming pot of soup at the center to notice the angry muttering behind her.
"Oi, you! Get in line like everyone else!" a rough voice barked.
Ciri froze, her cheeks flushing as she turned to see a tall, scruffy man glaring down at her. "Sorry," she stammered, stepping back.
The man scoffed, sneering as he looked her over. "Spoiled brat. Probably one of Calanthe's little nobles, thinking you're better than the rest of us. Some queen she turned out to be—couldn't even save her own city."
The words stung, sharp as a slap. Ciri flinched, her fingers clenching the edges of her cloak as her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
Another voice broke in, softer but no less bitter. "Better hope you weren't a supporter of the Lioness of Cintra, girl. She didn't just fail us—she doomed us all."
Ciri opened her mouth to protest, to defend her grandmother, but no words came. Instead, she lowered her head, guilt and shame tangling inside her like a knot.
"Hey."
Ciri looked up to see a boy standing a few feet away, watching her curiously. He was older than her, perhaps fifteen, with dark hair and a sharp, narrow face. His clothes were threadbare but cleaner than most, and a leather cord hung around his neck, holding what looked like a series of small bones.
His gaze dropped to her cloak, and his brow furrowed. "Where did you get that?" he asked suddenly, stepping closer.
Ciri stiffened. "What?"
"Your cloak." He gestured to the thick fabric draped over her shoulders. "My father made cloaks like that—for Cintra's finest. Only soldiers and nobles wore them."
Ciri's heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to remain calm. "It belonged to my family," she lied softly.
The boy studied her for a moment before nodding. "Come with me."
Before she could object, he turned and began walking through the camp. Ciri hesitated, her instincts warring with her curiosity, but something about the boy's confident stride made her follow.
She trailed behind him, her boots sinking into the muddy ground as they weaved between tents and campfires. After a few minutes, they stopped near a fire pit surrounded by a ragged group of refugees.
The boy crouched beside the flames, pulling the necklace from around his neck. Ciri's stomach turned as she got a closer look.
The necklace wasn't made of bones—it was made of ears. Pointed ears, strung together like trophies.
Ciri stared, horrified. The boy noticed her expression and smirked humorlessly. "Elves," he said simply, holding up the grisly collection. "I killed each one myself."
Ciri swallowed thickly, her voice shaking. "Why?"
The boy's expression hardened. "For revenge."
He turned the necklace in his hands, his voice lowering. "My brothers fought in Filavandrel's uprising, years ago. Elves ambushed their regiment—slaughtered most of them. My eldest brother, Garen, bled to death in a ditch because of them." He spat the word like poison.
"I've hunted elves ever since," he continued, his tone cold and matter-of-fact. "An eye for an eye. A life for a life."
Ciri said nothing, her heart pounding as she looked away. She didn't know what to say—what could she say?
The boy stood, brushing the dirt from his knees. "Come on. You'll meet the others."
He led her to a nearby tent, where a thin, weary-looking woman sat beside a younger boy who couldn't have been more than ten. The woman looked up, her sharp features softening as she took in Ciri's appearance.
"Who's this?" she asked, her voice gentle.
The older boy shrugged. "She never said, all i know is she's travelling alone."
The older woman turned to look at her curiously, ciri was about to introduce gereslef when she remembered the rest kf tge refugees thoughts on her grandmother, "They definitely won't like me," she thought wincing, on the spot she said "Fiona, my names Fiona." She said, choosing to use her middle name.
The woman smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in her eyes. "Well, Fiona, you're welcome here." She gestured for Ciri to sit beside her. "I'm Lilja. This is my youngest, Zeke. And the one who brought you here is Adon."
"Hello," Ciri murmured, sitting down carefully.
Lilja studied her thoughtfully, her gaze drifting to Ciri's feet. "Your shoes are falling apart, girl. You'll catch your death like that."
Ciri glanced down at her scuffed, muddy boots and shrugged weakly. "I'll be fine."
"Nonsense." Lilja turned her head sharply. "Abbot!"
A small figure appeared near the tent's entrance—a halfling with thin shoulders and downcast eyes. Lilja pointed at his feet. "Give her your shoes."
Abbot hesitated for only a moment before nodding silently. He knelt to unlace his shoes, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them before Ciri.
Ciri stared at him, guilt twisting in her chest. "I… I don't need them."
"Take them," Lilja insisted. "Abbot's used to going without."
Reluctantly, Ciri picked up the shoes, mumbling, "Thank you."
The halfling said nothing, his gaze fixed on the ground as he stepped back into the shadows.
That night, they huddled together in the tent, the fire outside flickering dimly through the canvas walls. Lilja tucked a blanket around Zeke and turned to Ciri with a faint smile. "You're safe now, Fiona," she said softly.
Ciri looked up at her, hope stirring faintly in her chest. "Do you know a man called Geralt of Rivia?"
Lilja frowned, shaking her head. "No, I'm afraid I don't."
Ciri's hope faltered, and she lowered her head.
Lilja's voice softened. "Do you have family waiting for you?"
Ciri hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. "My parents died years ago," she whispered. "My grandmother raised me. She… she died in the attack."
"I'm sorry, child," Lilja said, her expression softening with understanding. "I lost my husband that day, too."
"I'm sorry," Ciri whispered, her voice breaking.
Lilja's hand brushed her shoulder gently. "We'll escape together. You'll see."
Ciri nodded, her eyes closing as exhaustion overtook her.
For the first time in days, she felt something almost like safety.
/.:.:.:.:.:./
The camp lay silent under the veil of night, the faint crackling of dying embers the only sound that broke the stillness.
Ciri lay curled beneath her borrowed blanket, her breaths slow and shallow as the exhaustion of the past few days weighed heavily on her. Around her, the other refugees were equally still, their forms barely visible in the dim light.
Then came the first scream.
Ciri's eyes snapped open, her heart leaping into her throat. She sat up abruptly, her pulse quickening as the scream was followed by others—shouts of panic and the unmistakable clang of steel.
The camp erupted into chaos.
Lilja was the first to react, bolting upright and shaking her sons awake. "Adon! Zeke! Get up now!" she barked, her voice sharp with urgency.
Adon scrambled to his feet, reaching for his knife, while Zeke, still groggy, fumbled with his boots.
"Mother, what's happening?" Zeke asked, his voice trembling.
"Nilfgaardians," Lilja hissed, her face pale but determined. "We need to leave. Now."
She turned sharply to the halfling, Abbott, who stood frozen in the corner of the tent. "You!" she snapped, her tone venomous. "Get the supplies. Move!"
Abbott flinched and hurried to obey, but as Lilja tossed a heavy bag at him, it struck him square in the chest, knocking him back. The bag fell to the ground, spilling its contents, and Abbott froze, his hands trembling as he stared at the mess.
"You useless rat!" Lilja snarled, stepping forward. "Can't even do one thing right, can you?"
Before anyone could react, Lilja struck him across the face, the sharp crack of her hand echoing through the tent. Abbott stumbled but didn't fall, his head snapping back to meet her gaze. Something in his eyes shifted, and for the first time, Ciri saw anger—real, burning anger—flare behind his normally timid expression.
Then he lunged.
The knife came out of nowhere, glinting briefly in the firelight before it sank into Lilja's side. She gasped, her eyes wide with shock as Abbott pulled it free and stabbed her again.
Ciri screamed.
She scrambled back against the tent wall, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as she watched the scene unfold. Abbott stabbed Lilja over and over, his movements wild and frenzied, his face contorted in rage.
Blood spattered across the dirt floor, and Lilja's screams turned into wet gurgles before she collapsed.
Zeke shouted, rushing toward Abbott, but before he could reach him, a sword slashed through the fabric of the tent. A Nilfgaardian soldier stepped through, his blade gleaming.
Ciri couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The tent was a blur of blood, steel, and chaos, and her mind screamed for her to run, but her body refused to obey.
Then a hand grabbed her arm.
Ciri cried out, her tears blurring her vision as she was pulled through a tear in the tent wall. Her heart pounded in her chest, terror gripping her as she turned to see who had grabbed her.
It was him.
Rat boy.
He didn't speak, his face unreadable as he motioned for her to follow. Ciri hesitated for only a moment before nodding, her instincts screaming at her to get as far away from the camp as possible.
The two of them darted through the chaos, weaving between tents and ducking beneath the swings of Nilfgaardian blades. Around them, refugees screamed and fell, their cries lost in the cacophony of battle.
Ciri's legs ached, but she forced herself to keep running, her mind racing as she tried to process what she had seen.
Lilja.
The name echoed in her mind, her vision flashing with images of the woman's bloodied body. She wanted to scream, to cry, but there was no time.
As they passed one of the central campfires, Ciri's gaze fell on a familiar figure. Adon lay sprawled on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Two swords jutted from his chest, their hilts slick with blood.
Ciri gagged, her stomach twisting violently. She wanted to look away, but her feet faltered, her grief rooting her to the spot.
"Adon…" she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Rat boy grabbed her arm again, his grip firm but not harsh. He pulled her forward, forcing her to keep moving.
Ciri threw her hood over her head, her breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps as they pushed through the edge of the camp and disappeared into the woods.
/.:.:..:..:../
The sun was just beginning to rise when Ciri woke the next morning.
She lay beneath a makeshift shelter of branches and leaves, her body aching and her mind foggy from exhaustion. For a moment, she stared blankly at the canopy above, trying to piece together where she was.
Then it all came rushing back.
The camp. Lilja. Adon. The blood.
Ciri sat up abruptly, her heart racing. She turned her head, her gaze falling on Rat boy, who was crouched by a nearby stream.
For the first time, he wasn't wearing his hat.
Ciri's breath caught as she saw the pointed tips of his ears, glinting faintly in the morning light.
He was an elf.
Rat boy turned suddenly, his dark eyes meeting hers. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Ciri exhaled slowly, her racing thoughts calming as she met his gaze. She offered him a small, shaky smile.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Dara blinked, his expression unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he smiled back—a small, awkward smile that seemed almost shy.
"I'm Dara," he said, his voice quiet but steady.
Ciri's eyes widened slightly at the sound of his voice. She smiled back at him, her chest swelling with gratitude.
"Ciri," she replied simply.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Ciri didn't feel so alone.
--
/.:././././
Hello everyone, sorry for the update schedule, I've been fairly busy at the moment, focusing on writing my own book series, as such that seems to have taken up much of my time, and i do apologise for that, however i hope that this chapter has made up for that, even if only a little, thank you all so much for the support and as always may God bless you all very much fortuitously!