Disclaimer:

This work is a fan fiction inspired by The Witcher universe, originally created by Andrzej Sapkowski and expanded by CD Projekt Red. All characters, settings, and concepts are used in a transformative and creative manner. This story is not affiliated with or endorsed by the original creators.

Genre: Romance and Tragedy

Note about Geralt and Yennefer's Relationship

Book and Series Reference

• Geralt meets Yennefer while she is attempting to capture a djinn to heal her infertility.

• To save her life, Geralt makes a wish that binds their fates together. This magical bond forms the foundation of their relationship.

1272 - The Last Wish Revisited (The Witcher 3 Game)

• Yennefer seeks to sever the bond created by Geralt's wish, questioning whether their love is genuine or merely the result of magic.

• After the bond is broken, Geralt feels betrayed by Yennefer's inability to trust their relationship and rejects her.

1273 - Restoring Fertility

• Geralt encounters Gaunter O'Dimm, who offers to restore his fertility.

• Geralt's decision is impulsive, driven by anger over Yennefer's actions and a desire to explore what life might have been like on her terms.

1275 - Meeting Vivienne

• In Toussaint, Geralt meets Vivienne, a cursed lady-in-waiting. He helps her break her curse, and they develop a deep bond.

• They settle together in Corvo Bianco, finding peace and love in each other.


Chapter I: The Wilted Sunflower.

It had been three years since Anya was born, and the peace of Corvo Bianco had softened the edges of the hardened witcher. His swords, once sharp and ready for battle, now dulled from disuse. His days were filled with the rhythm of vineyard life rather than the cries of monsters or the clash of steel.

The vineyard was flourishing, thanks in no small part to the camaraderie and support of Count Liam and Countess Matilda from Belgaard. The couple, ever generous, regularly sent supplies—fertilizer, barrels, even advice on cultivating his vines to produce wines worthy of Toussaint's famed reputation. It was a life Geralt had never envisioned for himself, yet one he found himself growing more attached to with each passing season.

The palace, however, was a different matter. Weekly court meetings were a necessity of his title as Count of Corvo Bianco, but they were rarely anything more than an exercise in tedium. The whispers in the great hall, however, were impossible to ignore.

Who would succeed Anna Henrietta?

As the sun set in gold and crimson, Geralt returned to Corvo Bianco. The vineyard's scent, the chirp of crickets, and the glow of the estate's warm lights brought him a sense of calm.

By the time he opened the manor door, candlelight spilled across the stone floors, wrapping him in a sense of home. Before he could remove his gloves, he heard the soft patter of tiny feet.

"Da!"

Anya toddled toward him, her golden hair catching the glow of the candles. She was still learning to walk. Behind her, Vivienne crouched a short distance away, her eyes bright with encouragement.

"Come on, Anya," Vivienne called gently, "You're almost there."

"Come here, little wolf." Geralt dropped to one knee.

Anya let out a delighted giggle, her small legs carrying her the last few steps into Geralt's arms. He scooped her up, holding her close as her tiny hands patted his face.

"Good girl," Geralt murmured. "You're getting stronger every day."

Vivienne rose and approached them, her elegant features soft with affection. She rested a hand on Geralt's shoulder and leaned in to kiss Anya's cheek.

Geralt looked at Anya. The Trial of the Grasses had long dulled his senses, leaving him detached. But now, with Anya in his arms, he felt a love he never thought he could experience.

That night, the family gathered for dinner, prepared meticulously by Marlene. The dining table was adorned with an array of dishes that rivaled any feast served in Beauclair.

A rich pheasant pie, its crust golden and flaky, sat at the center of the table. Beside it was a platter of roasted quail, stuffed with herbs and chestnuts, the skin crisp and glistening. A tureen of creamy leek and parsnip soup was accompanied by a basket of freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven. Bowls of honey-glazed carrots and buttery turnips added a touch of sweetness to the savory spread.

Vivienne sat at the head of the table, Anya perched on a high chair beside her. Geralt took his usual seat across from them, pouring himself a glass of Sangreal wine.

It was a moment so ordinary, yet extraordinary in its simplicity.

As they ate, Vivienne and Geralt spoke of their day, sharing stories and laughter. Anya babbled happily between bites, her laughter ringing like a melody through the room.

When the meal was over, and Anya had been put to bed, Geralt and Vivienne lingered by the fireplace in the sitting room. Vivienne leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder as the fire crackled softly.

"Do you ever miss it?" Vivienne asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Miss what?" Geralt replied, his hand idly tracing patterns on her arm.

"The life you had before, the wandering, the contracts, the battles."

"Sometimes," Geralt admitted, his gaze fixed on the flames. "It was all I knew for so long. But this… this is different. Better."

"I'm glad you think so. I worried, at first, that this life might not be enough for you." Vivienne smiled.

"It's more than enough," Geralt said firmly, turning to meet her gaze. "I didn't think I'd ever find peace, Vivienne. But here, with you and Anya, I have."


Later, as the evening settled into stillness, Geralt sat alone on the balcony. He nursed a goblet of Sangreal, its deep ruby hue glinting in the moonlight. The stars above stretched endlessly, a glittering expanse over the tranquil Toussaint landscape.

Geralt let his thoughts drift, caught by the serenity of the moment. He pictured Vivienne taking Anya to bed after dinner, their daughter's laughter still echoing in his mind—a sound so foreign and precious in his once-lonely life.

As he swirled the wine in his goblet, his meditative silence was broken. A presence—familiar and unwelcome—manifested beside him, as casually as if it had always been there. Geralt's eyes shifted sideways.

Gaunter O'Dimm.

Dressed in his deceptively plain attire, the Master Mirror leaned back on the bench next to Geralt and cast his gaze upward to the same stars.

"What foul purpose brings you here, O'Dimm?" Geralt asked with annoyance. He didn't turn his head fully, choosing instead to keep his focus on the horizon.

"Foul? How hurtful, Geralt. I've merely come to pay a visit, to congratulate you, in fact." O'Dimm smiled, infuriatingly calm as ever.

"Congratulate me? How generous of you to travel all this way for a few hollow words." Geralt raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip of wine before replying.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you. It wounds my delicate sensibilities." O'Dimm placed a hand over his heart in mock offense, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

They sat in silence for a moment, the distant hum of cicadas filling the void. Geralt's fingers drummed lightly against his goblet, waiting for the inevitable twist to O'Dimm's visit.

It came soon enough.

"You've built quite the life here, a lovely estate, a beautiful wife, a radiant daughter. But life, as you well know, is fleeting. For some more than others."

Geralt knew where this was going. "Get to the point."

"Merely a reminder, dear friend. Vivienne only has four years left. Less now. You know as well as I do that Anya leans heavily on her mother. Can you imagine her growing up without that warmth? That guidance?" O'Dimm tilted his head, feigning innocence.

"Even Cirilla," O'Dimm continued, "had the privilege of two parental figures—yourself and Yennefer—guiding her to adulthood. Do you truly have the heart to let Anya grow up without her mother?"

Geralt set his goblet down deliberately, exhaling through his nose.

"If you've come to offer some devil's bargain, don't waste your breath. I want no part of it." Geralt replied coldly.

"Devil's bargain? You wound me again, Geralt. Have you forgotten? Ours is no transactional relationship. We are friends, you and I. You helped me, and I help you. That is the way of it." O'Dimm chuckled.

"You don't do anything without an angle. What's yours this time?"

O'Dimm shook his head, a glimmer of disappointment crossing his features. "Such mistrust. But no matter." He rose smoothly, brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. "Tomorrow, Toussaint will be abuzz with news. I suggest you prepare yourself, dear friend. An adventure awaits."

With that, he stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as seamlessly as he had appeared.

Geralt sat there for a moment, staring at the empty space where O'Dimm had been. He leaned back against the bench, his mind churning with the implications of O'Dimm's words.


Geralt first heard it from Barnabas-Basil, who approached him with his usual precision, though his tone was unusually grave as he handed over a steaming cup of tea.

"Grave tidings, sir," Barnabas said with uncharacteristically somber. "Her Grace, Duchess Anna Henrietta, has taken ill. The palace is in uproar."

"How ill?" Geralt set his cup down.

"Severely, I fear," Barnabas replied. "The court physicians are in attendance, but whispers suggest the illness came on suddenly. Poison, some say, though none would dare voice it aloud within the palace walls."

Geralt felt tension coil in his chest. O'Dimm's cryptic warning from the night before echoed in his mind.

Tomorrow, Toussaint will be abuzz with news.


In the royal chamber, Duchess Anna Henrietta lay propped against a mound of silk pillows, her complexion pale but her gaze steady as it rested on the window. When the door creaked open, she turned slightly.

"Geralt. Vivienne," she greeted softly, her voice weary but still carrying its familiar warmth. Geralt stepped in first, cradling Anya in his arms, with Vivienne following closely behind.

Anna adjusted herself against the pillows with a visible effort, offering a faint smile as Vivienne approached the bed and sat on its edge. Gently, Vivienne reached for Anna's hand, her fingers tracing light, soothing circles on the back of it.

"Anya," Anna whispered. "She looks just like you, Vivienne, the beauty of Toussaint lives on."

Geralt smirked faintly, rocking Anya gently. "Thankfully, she takes after her mother more than me. A countess' looks suit her better than a witcher's scowl."

Anna chuckled weakly, a fleeting sound that seemed to momentarily lighten the room.

But Geralt's cat-like eyes narrowed as he studied her. "You don't seem poisoned," he observed. "At least, nothing obvious. What's wrong?"

"It's not poison, Geralt. I've been unwell for some time now. I ignored it at first. Tried to push through. But lately, it feels as if… my body is leaving me. Little by little." Anna sighed, leaning back as if the question itself drained her.

Vivienne's hand lingered on Anna's, her lips pressed together, holding back words she couldn't bring herself to say.

"Let me see her," Anna gestured weakly toward Geralt.

Carefully, Geralt stepped closer, lowering Anya into Anna's reach. The Duchess's hands trembled slightly as they brushed over Anya's tiny fingers. She smiled faintly as the baby's hand grasped one of hers instinctively. For a moment, there was no sound but the quiet cooing of the infant and the Duchess's shallow breathing.

Geralt watched silently, his witcher instincts assessing every detail of Anna's condition. There was no curse, no magical residue, no signs of poison or foul play. This was something simpler—and more cruel.

Anna spoke again as if speaking to herself as much as to them.

"I've sent a letter to the Emperor," she said. "I can't say more just yet. But… promise me, Witcher. When the time comes, you'll protect Toussaint."

"You're not going anywhere yet," Geralt said firmly. "Save the farewells for later. I've seen men on their deathbeds, and you don't look like one of them."

Anna gave a small, knowing smile but said nothing.

"No," Vivienne cut in suddenly, her voice trembling. She leaned closer, her hand now clasping Anna's more firmly. "Don't speak like this, Your Grace. You'll recover. You've always been strong. Don't… don't give up on us now."

Anna blinked at Vivienne's words, she raised a hand to cup Vivienne's cheek. Her touch was light, almost fragile, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.

"You always did have a tender heart, Vivienne," Anna murmured fondly. "And it's been a joy to see you grow into the woman you've become. Anya is lucky to have you as her mother."

Vivienne's eyes welled, but she bit her lip to keep from breaking down.

Anna closed her eyes, leaning back against the pillows. The lines of exhaustion on her face seemed deeper now, her breathing slower. Vivienne reached for the blanket and tucked it gently around her.

"Rest now, Your Grace," Vivienne whispered tenderly.

Anna nodded, her lips curving into a small smile.

With that, the Duchess drifted into a light sleep. Geralt and Vivienne stood quietly for a moment, watching her. Then, with a shared understanding, they turned and left the chamber, closing the door softly behind them.


Anna Henrietta's illness brought an unusual gloom to Toussaint. Persistent rain swept over the vineyards, draping the once-sunlit land in gray. In the royal palace, the throne chamber felt emptier, its weekly court meetings marked by unease. Damien de la Tour presided with his usual stoic authority, offering stability, but even he couldn't quell the rising fear among the courtiers.

From his seat in the gallery, Geralt felt the shift. Anna Henrietta's absence was undeniable. The Duchess had been the heart of Toussaint, her vibrant presence binding both its politics and spirit.

"We are at doom!" one courtier had cried out during a session,. "Who will lead us once the Duchess is gone? Toussaint will surely be absorbed into Nilfgaard, given Anna Henrietta's ties to the Emperor!"

"Enough of this!" Damien barked.

"We are here to pray for the Duchess's recovery, not to entertain doomsayers. Speak ill of Toussaint's future again, and I will see you removed from this chamber." Damien silenced the man with a glare that could pierce steel.

The courtier had withered under Damien's gaze, retreating into silence. But the tension in the room remained, as thick as the storm clouds outside.

For Geralt, these courtly games were tiresome. Toussaint's politics felt far removed from the life he had known as a Witcher. Yet, as a count of Corvo Bianco, duty tethered him to the palace more than he cared to admit.


Marlene had prepared a hearty feast—roasted pheasant, buttered vegetables, and spiced wine filled the table with inviting aromas. Anya, seated in her high chair, giggled as she happily smeared bits of food across her plate.

"Use your spoon, sweetling," Vivienne coaxed gently, wiping Anya's face with a napkin.

"She's got your stubborn streak," Geralt teased with his goblet of Sangreal.

Vivienne rolled her eyes playfully. "And whose quick wit does she have?"

Before Geralt could reply, the dining room door swung open. Barnabas-Basil stepped in, his typically composed demeanor replaced by an air of urgency.

"My lord, my lady, I bring grave news." He said somberly.

Geralt set his goblet down, his Witcher instincts bristling. "What is it?"

Barnabas hesitated briefly before delivering the words that seemed to drain the life from the room.

"Her Grace, Duchess Anna Henrietta... has passed away."

The goblet slipped from Geralt's hand, clattering onto the floor and spilling its ruby-red contents like blood. He didn't bother to pick it up, his eyes fixed on Barnabas, searching for confirmation.

"Are you certain?" Geralt asked, though he already knew the answer.

"She passed peacefully in her chambers, surrounded by her attendants."

"Oh, Anna..." Vivienne's hand flew to her mouth, a sob escaping as tears welled in her eyes.

Geralt reached out to support her, though his own hands trembled. His lips felt dry, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Anna Henrietta, the radiant heart of Toussaint, was gone.

Anya, sensing the change in the room, looked up at her parents with wide, confused eyes.

"Mama? Papa?" she murmured softly.

Vivienne wiped her tear-streaked cheeks and pulled Anya into her arms. "It's all right, my love," she whispered. "Mama's just… sad."

"Thank you for letting us know," Geralt said. "I'll ride to the palace in the morning."

Barnabas inclined his head and quietly exited, leaving them to their grief.


Gone was the fiery ruler who insisted on overseeing every matter herself, whose charisma had been the lifeblood of the duchy.

Damien de la Tour, acting as interim, tried his best to maintain order, but his authority was a thin veneer over the cracks of dissent spreading through the Duchy. Without Duchess Anna Henrietta, there was no unifying figure to rally behind, and whispers of discontent filled the halls of Beauclair Palace.

Damien's commands, once backed by the absolute authority of Anna, were now dismissed by many courtiers. Nobles who had once pledged their loyalty to the duchess now schemed behind closed doors, plotting their own ascension to power. Damien, a loyal soldier and protector of Toussaint, lacked the legitimacy to compel the court's obedience.


It was a sun-dappled afternoon in Toussaint. Geralt was down in the vineyard, his hands deftly cutting clusters of plump grapes from their vines. His workers moved around him, chatting and laughing in the distance. Barnabas-Basil Foulty, ever diligent, hovered nearby, inspecting the day's haul and offering the occasional word of encouragement to the workers.

Geralt straightened up, brushing dirt and dust off his hands as he heard the unmistakable clatter of horses' hooves. It wasn't just one rider—it was a group, the sound echoing across the hills. Narrowing his eyes, he moved toward the main path, where the visitors soon came into view.

The leader, Count Liam de Coronata, dismounted his horse with his usual charisma.

"Geralt, my friend!" Liam called out warmly with his arms spread in greeting. "How fares the Witcher of Corvo Bianco?"

"Liam," Geralt said, clasping his hand briefly in greeting. "Didn't expect to see you here. What brings you to my vineyard?"

"I was in the area and thought I'd visit. But also, I was curious. How's the harvest?" Liam grinned as they began to walk through the rows of ripening grapes.

"Good. Better than expected. No archespores lurking about, though. A shame—I could've used a bit of practice for my silver sword."

"Always the Witcher. But truly, that's good to hear. I imagine the market will be quite pleased with this season's vintage." Liam chuckled, shaking his head.

"We're just about ready to send the first batch," Geralt replied.

"Geralt, if you've a moment, I'd like to talk about something… private. A matter that needs discretion." Liam nodded thoughtfully before glancing around, noting the workers nearby.

"All right. Follow me." Geralt studied him briefly, then nodded.

He led Liam up to the balcony of Corvo Bianco, his preferred spot for moments of solitude. The view stretched out over the rolling hills of Toussaint, a tapestry of greens and golds that seemed almost surreal in its beauty. Geralt retrieved a bottle of his own wine and poured two goblets, sliding one toward Liam.

"Thanks, friend," Liam said, raising the goblet with a small smile before taking a sip. "Ah, as expected—excellent."

"So, out with it. What's this about?" Geralt leaned back against the railing, his cat-like eyes steady on Liam.

"You see, Geralt, I've named one of my wines after you. To honor what you've done—for me, for Beauclair, for all of Toussaint," Liam explained. "Without your help, Belgaard wouldn't be what it is today. Matilda and I owe you a great deal."

"I didn't do it for recognition."

"I know," Liam said earnestly. "But respect where it's due. And it's more than that. I've always valued your friendship, Geralt. I hope you feel the same."

Geralt gave a small nod. "I do. You've been a good ally."

"Then I trust you'll understand why I'm here." Liam exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Geralt didn't respond immediately, his silence prompting Liam to continue.

"It's the palace, Geralt. Without Anna Henrietta, Toussaint is adrift. The court is in chaos—no leadership, no direction. Damien does his best, but he's a soldier, not a ruler. And then there's Syanna…"

Geralt's gaze sharpened slightly at the mention of her name.

"You and I both know what she represents," Liam said grimly. "The people haven't forgotten what happened during the Dettlaff crisis. Their homes, their families, their livelihoods—destroyed. She was at the heart of it, and if she ascends, it will tear Toussaint apart."

"So, what are you asking me?" Geralt said with a cold tone.

"I need your support," Liam said, leaning forward slightly. "Geralt, I've done everything I can to prove myself to this Duchy. My estates, my vineyards, my loyalty—they're all dedicated to its prosperity. And I have the backing of many nobles. But I need more than that. I need someone the people trust. Someone like you."

Geralt's expression didn't change, but his silence spoke volumes.

"Geralt," Liam pressed, his voice almost pleading now. "I'm not asking this lightly. I know what's at stake. Toussaint deserves stability, not the chaos Syanna would bring. You've seen what I can do. You know I'd make a fair and just ruler."

Geralt let out a low sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "This isn't a decision I can make on the spot, Liam. You're asking me to pick sides in a game I've never wanted to play."

"It's not a game, It's our future. Toussaint's future." Liam said firmly but not unkind

Geralt fell silent again, staring out over the balcony. The golden fields stretched endlessly before them, a vision of peace that felt increasingly fragile. Finally, he spoke,

"I need time to think," he said. "This isn't something I can decide overnight. I'll send word to Belgaard when I've made up my mind."

Liam's shoulders slumped slightly, disappointment etched across his face. Still, he forced a small smile, reaching out to clasp Geralt's shoulder.

"I understand," he said quietly. "I'll wait for your answer, my friend. And I'll trust you'll make the right choice."

Geralt gave a slight nod, his hands gripping the railing as Liam turned to leave.


The night was quiet, broken only by the gentle flow of the river. Geralt pushed open the creaking door of the old house by the water's edge. The structure seemed to sag under the weight of years of neglect, its fragility evident. Stepping inside, he paused, his eyes sweeping over the dim interior.

"You can come out, Damien."

From behind the door, Damien de la Tour emerged, the captain of the Ducal Guard taking a seat on an old, splintered chair. His face was shadowed by fatigue, but his posture remained resolute.

"Any progress?" Geralt asked, turning to face him.

"Nothing good," Damien replied, resting his elbows on his knees. "But I heard Liam paid you a visit this afternoon."

Geralt folded his arms. "He did. Wanted more than just to chat, though. He asked me to back his claim to the throne."

Damien nodded, unsurprised. "We figured as much."

Geralt leaned against the doorframe. "Now, tell me what you've got."

Damien hesitated, then spoke. "Orianna's been… active. She's had her people visiting Syanna. Quietly, without our guards noticing."

"Her people? Vampires, most likely."

Damien froze. "What? Vampires?"

"Surprised? She's one herself. A higher vampire. I figured that out some time ago."

The color drained from Damien's face, but he quickly composed himself. "And you didn't think to mention this sooner?"

"No need to cause a panic. Not yet." Geralt shrugged.

"Orianna's been in Toussaint for centuries. She's got connections everywhere—commoners, nobles, merchants. Even Anna Henrietta avoided direct confrontation with her." Damien ran a hand down his face.

"I'm aware," Geralt said. "She's clever. Dangerous. And now she's meeting with Syanna. My guess? She's feeding Syanna ideas. Encouraging her to claim what she believes is hers. With Orianna's support, Syanna might think she has a chance to rally discontented factions."

"Why Syanna? Why not someone more… stable?" Damien frowned, rubbing his chin.

"Because Syanna's desperate," Geralt replied. "And desperate people are easier to manipulate. Besides, this isn't just about Syanna. Orianna's aiming at me."

Damien's eyes widened. "You?"

Geralt nodded. "I've made enemies among her kind. Killing Dettlaff didn't just anger her; it turned the higher vampires against Regis, too. They don't forget things like that."

"But Syanna was the one behind the whole Dettlaff disaster," Damien argued. "She used him."

"And it was Regis who struck the killing blow," Geralt said, "But to them, I'm just as guilty. Doesn't matter that it was self-defense, or that Dettlaff was rampaging through Beauclair. To Orianna, I'm a threat. And threats are dealt with."

"So, what's the plan? Should we back Liam? If it's between him and Syanna, he's the safer choice. My knights will follow your lead, Geralt. Just say the word." Damien exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists.

"Not yet," Geralt said. "This is still speculation. I need more proof before we act."

"We're running out of time. The court's already in chaos. If Orianna makes her move, we could lose control of Toussaint." Damien leaned back in his chair in frustration and concern.

"I know. But if we rush this, we'll make mistakes. And mistakes will cost lives." Geralt's gaze drifted to the broken window, where the moonlight streamed in, casting pale shadows across the room.

"Fine. I'll keep my men ready. But we'll need a plan soon, Witcher." Damien nodded reluctantly, his trust in Geralt evident.

"We will."


Geralt stood in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, his cat-like eyes fixed on the silhouette of a tower where Syanna was being held under house arrest. The tower's darkened windowpane reflected no light, its emptiness blending with the night.

Leaning against the cool stone wall, arms crossed, he waited. Midnight came and went before a faint flicker of candlelight illuminated the window. He straightened slightly, narrowing his gaze.

In the dim glow, he saw her—Syanna stepped closer to the window. Her posture was rigid, her head tilted slightly as if listening to someone in the room. Though Geralt couldn't see the other figure, it was clear she wasn't alone.

For a moment, her posture exuded defiance; arms crossed, her chin raised in a gesture of pride. But then, something changed. Her brows furrowed, and her movements became less deliberate, as though the conversation had taken a turn. She stepped back from the window, disappearing from sight, and not long after, the light extinguished.

It wasn't long before he felt the faintest shift, a subtle movement in the stillness—a presence. Someone was moving down the corridor ahead.

"A woman wandering the streets alone at this hour? Not the wisest choice," Geralt remarked, "though Beauclair's people are known for their hospitality, far better than us Northerners."

The figure paused but didn't turn. The woman's form was cloaked entirely, her face hidden beneath the hood.

Geralt took a step closer. "But then again, you're no ordinary woman, are you?"

She remained silent, her stillness more telling than any words.

He drew closer, noticing the unnatural length of her nails as they glinted faintly in the moonlight, sharp as blades. He hissed through his teeth, his hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of his silver sword. "Why the interest in Syanna, bruxa?"

The figure finally stirred. Her posture shifted, no longer defensive but poised with an eerie grace. She turned slowly, the hood falling back to reveal a strikingly beautiful face. Her red lips curled into a faint smile, her glowing eyes fixed on him.

"What do you think, Witcher?" She asked.

"To plant the idea that Orianna will support her claim to the throne?" Geralt ventured.

The bruxa chuckled softly, circling him with a predator's ease. "Clever, as always."

"Why bother? Even if Syanna presses her claim, the people won't stand for it. She brought Dettlaff to Toussaint—destroyed their home. They'll never forgive her."

"And you, Witcher?" she countered, her tone dripping with disdain. "You reek of blood. Our blood."

"I'm not here to fight you," Geralt didn't flinch, he said evenly. "I just want to talk. If Orianna wants revenge for Dettlaff, then let her come after me. Leave Syanna out of it. If she takes the throne, the people will revolt. There'll be more blood spilled."

The bruxa halted her circling and regarded him with a bemused expression. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a cold, mocking sound that echoed through the alley.

"You think the world revolves around you, Witcher? That Lady Orianna spends her days plotting your demise?" Her laughter subsided into a smirk. "How narrow your view is."

Geralt's brow furrowed, suspicion and curiosity warring within him. "If that's not it, then what is she after?"

"That's not for me to say. But you misunderstand her entirely."

Geralt held her gaze, searching for any sign of deception, but the bruxa's face revealed nothing.

"If there's nothing else to discuss," she said, pulling her cloak back over her face, "I'll be on my way."

Geralt stepped aside, watching as she walked past him, her movements as silent as the night itself. Her figure soon vanished into the darkness, leaving him alone once more.

Geralt exhaled slowly.


Note: Anna's death was caused by cancer—yeah, no cure for that, sweetheart.

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