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:
I swapped Dalimira for Milena. Why? Because the name reminds me of Melina from Elden Ring, lol. In the original setup, Milena was a sorceress and Dalimira was a priestess, but now I've made Milena the priestess and Dalimira the sorceress. Though, to be honest, I only read about them on the fandom wiki.
Blood and Steel
The howling winds of Tretogor bit through the sea salt air as Dijkstra climbed the wooden platform overlooking Redania's assembled might. Ten thousand soldiers stood in rigid formation—scarlet surcoats of Redanian lancers blending with the slate-gray cloaks of Kaedweni axemen. Behind them, the jagged spires of the royal fortress pierced the clouds like a clawed fist. Philippa walked behind Dijkstra, her crimson cloak of Redania trailing against the stone, while Francis Bedlam, once a shadow ruler of Novigrad's underworld, now a trusted advisor, strode in silence beside Dijkstra.
Ascended, Dijkstra looked upon the sea of soldiers gathered before him. A force forged through blood and iron, a coalition stronger than ever since Radovid's death. He took a slow breath, feeling the sheer weight of their presence. Goosebumps.
"Brothers! Sisters! Sons and daughters of the true North!" His voice boomed across the field, raw and jagged as a sawtooth blade. "Look around you! See what weakness has wrought!" He thrust a meaty hand toward the eastern horizon. "Kovir spits on its heritage. Poviss hoards our ports. And Nilfgaard?" A spit. "The Black Ones lick their wounds in Cintra, laughing as we squabble like starved dogs over scraps!"
A murmur rippled through the ranks. A Kaedweni soldier tightened his grip on his axe.
Dijkstra leaned forward, knuckles whitening on the podium. "I stood in Oxenfurt's ashes a decade ago. Watched your fathers, your uncles, bleed to stop Nilfgaard's tide. And why? Because Radovid the Mad let mages burn while the South sharpened its knives!" He slammed his fist down. Splinters flew. "No more! No more division! No more cowards hiding behind borders drawn by dead men!"
Philippa's raven circled overhead, its shadow slicing through the ranks. Bedlam scribbled feverishly.
"Kovir's independence makes them strong?" Dijkstra's laugh was a bark. "It makes them prey. Nilfgaard devours divided lands. Temeria. Cintra. Sodden. All fallen because they forgot what binds us—blood! Steel! The fire in our veins that forged this land from ice and wolf packs!"
A Redanian banner snapped in the wind. Soldiers stamped their boots.
"But I do not come to mourn!" Dijkstra spread his arms, the gesture of a conqueror embracing his due. "I come to rebuild! To carve an empire that will make the South tremble! And who leads this new dawn?" He turned, snapping his fingers.
Milena. The sister of Radovid V, now his bride.
She ascended the steps, her swollen belly draped in ermine-trimmed velvet, her face pale but resolute. Dijkstra gripped her shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric. "Behold! The last true blood of Redania's lions! No longer cowering in Eternal Fire temples! No longer shackled by her brother's madness! She carries the heir to a united North—a child of purity! Of strength!"
The crowd roared. Milena's smile faltered as Philippa's raven landed on her shoulder, its beak glinting.
Dijkstra raised Milena's hand high. "This is not surrender! This is rebirth! Together, we will crush the traitors in Kovir! Shatter Poviss's greed! And when Nilfgaard crawls back to its poisoned deserts, they will find a wall of Northern steel waiting!"
He stepped back, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his brow. "You ask what I offer? Victory! A land where farmers till soil unburned by war! Where your children kneel to no Southern puppet! Where Redania does not beg for scraps—it takes!"
The chant began in the rear ranks—a low rumble building to a thunderous cry.
"uraa! uraaa! URAAAA!"
Axes pounded shields. Lancers drove spears into the earth. Philippa's lips curved as Bedlam whispered in her ear.
The raven took flight as the chant swallowed the wind.
"REDANIA! REDANIA! REDANIA!"
Milena's hand trembled in his grip. Dijkstra leaned close, his whisper a blade. "Smile, lioness. History is watching."
And somewhere in Nilfgaard, an emperor coughed into a silk handkerchief stained black.
The bitter chill of Lan Exeter's winter seeped through the heavy velvet curtains of King Tankred Thyssen's chamber, but the warmth of his palace defied it. Gold chandeliers glowed, fireplaces crackled, and thick carpets muffled every sound. Outside, the capital slept under a blanket of snow, its people secure in the knowledge that their king had made Kovir richer than ever. His trade in silver and gold had secured prosperity, while Redania, ever the shield against Nilfgaard, distracted itself with its ambitions in the south.
Tankred allowed himself a rare moment of ease. He leaned back against the silk cushions of his great oak bed, exhaling. What a time to be alive.
Then the first explosion hit.
A deafening boom split the night, followed by a tremor that rattled the chamber doors. Tankred's goblet of warmed wine toppled, spilling crimson across the marble floor. His pulse spiked, but he barely had time to react before the doors burst open. A knight clad in the blue and gold of Kovir stormed in, breathless, face pale beneath his helmet,—The Knight Captain, Arvid.
"My king, we must move!"
Tankred blinked the sleep from his eyes, scowling. "What madness is this? Speak sense."
Another explosion rocked the palace. The crystal chandelier above swayed violently, dust and plaster raining down. A distant scream echoed through the corridors. Tankred pushed off the bed, reaching for the sword resting by his bedside.
Arvid grabbed his arm. "No time, Your Grace! We must get you to safety—Poviss, if we must retreat!"
Tankred yanked his arm free, eyes burning with fury. "You dare order your king to flee?"
Another impact. This time, it was closer. The walls groaned under the strain, the ceiling above them cracking. Tankred swore and shoved past the knight, striding towards the balcony doors.
The moment he stepped outside, the breath left his lungs.
The night sky, once pristine and clear, was now a vision of pure hell. Fire rained from above. Streaks of burning rock fell in great arcs, illuminating the darkness like the arrival of vengeful gods. It wasn't natural—no storm, no accident. This was war. And it was unlike any war Kovir had ever seen.
By the harbor, the city burned. Ships, still moored, had been torn apart. Streets ran wild with fire, buildings crumbling beneath the relentless barrage. Tankred could barely comprehend it. His city—his fortress of trade and wealth—was being torn to shreds before his eyes.
"What is this?" His voice was hoarse, disbelieving.
Arvid's face was grim, illuminated by the flickering inferno. "Redanian ships, Your Grace. They're launching—" he hesitated, as if struggling to believe the words himself, "—they're launching these from across the sea."
Tankred gripped the cold iron of the balcony railing. "That's impossible. No catapult, no trebuchet has this kind of range."
A shrill scream cut through the chaos as another explosion reduced a watchtower to rubble. The bodies of guards tumbled from the heights like ragdolls. Smoke choked the air, thick and acrid.
"It's not siege equipment," the knight said. "It's magic."
Tankred turned sharply. "Magic?"
Arvid nodded, eyes darting between his king and the nightmare unfolding behind him. "Redania has reformed its military. Philippa Eilhart leads their battle-mages. We—" he swallowed, "—we had no intelligence on the extent of their progress. I believe we are the first to witness what she has built."
Another explosion. This one closer, shaking the very foundation of the palace. A great, fiery projectile tore through the lower halls, sending debris skyward. The ground trembled beneath their feet.
Tankred clenched his jaw. A year ago, the Redanian spymaster had sent a messenger, a veiled threat wrapped in polite diplomacy. Surrender Kovir and Poviss, or face annihilation. Tankred had laughed, dismissed it as bluffing. After all, how many times had Redania tried and failed to reclaim these lands?
But this… this was no bluff.
"We need to move," Arvid urged, gripping Tankred's arm again. "If we stay here, we die."
Tankred barely heard him. His eyes remained locked on the inferno before him, on the death of his city. Women and children screamed in the streets, running for shelter that no longer existed. His wealth, his power, none of it mattered now.
Another explosion struck just outside the palace gates, sending a wave of fire and stone into the air. The heat seared his skin. A moment later, the doors behind him shattered, and a gust of scorching wind swept through the chamber.
Tankred staggered, then turned on his heel.
"Get the horses," Tankred ordered. "We ride for Poviss."
If Kovir had any chance at survival, its ruler had to escape.
Tankred took one last glance at his burning capital. He would remember this night for the rest of his life. The night the gods rained fire upon him. The night he learned that Redania no longer played by the old rules.
He turned away, stepping back into the palace as another explosion split the sky. His knight urged him forward, leading him through shadowed halls where servants cowered and guards scrambled to reinforce the gates. But there was no holding the city. Kovir's wealth had made them soft. No standing army could prepare for the sheer force of destruction unleashed upon them tonight.
Tankred clenched his jaw as they reached the stables. The scent of hay and horses filled his lungs, momentarily drowning out the acrid stench of fire. Here, away from the worst of the chaos, he found a brief moment of silence. The crackle of flames still echoed from the distance, but within these walls, it was just him, his knights, and the promise of escape
"Check on my children," Tankred ordered, voice tight.
"Already en route with the vanguard." Arvid's lie came smooth as poisoned wine.
Tankred exhaled sharply, his fingers curling against the pommel of his sword. Redania's sudden and brutal offensive had shattered any illusion of Kovir's security. They had underestimated Philippa Eilhart's influence, dismissed Dijkstra's words as mere bluster. Now, the city burned.
The second knight stepped forward, gripping his torch as Arvid led Tankred's horse toward the stable doors. When Arvid reached for the latch, the doors slammed shut from the outside. Wood groaned as heavy crates were shoved against the entrance.
"What in the—?" Arvid released the reins, instincts kicking in as he reached for his sword.
The second knight stood eerily still, his torch casting long shadows over his face. His lips curled into a slow, deliberate grin. He did not reach for his weapon.
Tankred swallowed, his pulse quickening. Something was wrong.
Arvid took a cautious step forward. "Help me move the damn—"
The second knight shifted, torchlight gleaming in his narrowed eyes. Then, without warning, he tossed the torch into the pile of straw.
Flames erupted, devouring the dry bedding in an instant. The air thickened with smoke. The fire crackled, licking hungrily at the wooden walls.
"Glory to the Eternal Fire," the second knight whispered. His voice carried an unsettling calm, almost reverent.
Arvid reacted swiftly, driving his blade into the traitor's gut. But the traitor did not flinch. Instead, he let out a low, rasping chuckle, his hands clamping down on the steel buried in his stomach. Blood seeped through his fingers as he held the sword in place, preventing its withdrawal.
Tankred took a step back, horror clawing at his throat.
The traitor lifted his other hand and drew a dagger. His movements were slow, deliberate. Then, in a brutal surge, he rammed the blade under the first Arvid's jaw—plunging it upwards, past flesh and bone, through soft tissue.
Arvid gasped, a wet, gurgling sound as blood spilled down his chin. The traitor did not stop. He twisted the dagger, then drove it in again. And again. Arvid convulsed, his grip on his sword faltering before he crumpled onto the stable floor, his blood pooling beneath him.
The traitor exhaled, his breath labored. The flames had spread now, crawling up the wooden beams, casting the stable in a shifting, flickering hellscape. Smoke thickened, stealing the air from Tankred's lungs.
The traitor turned his gaze to the king. "You won't die alone, I'll stay with you."
Tankred stumbled back, his foot slipping on the bloodied floorboards. His vision blurred as the heat intensified. The traitor made no move to escape. He did not even try to remove the sword impaling him.
The fire swallowed them both.
And then came the screaming.
Dijkstra pissed onto the smoldering remains of a stable. Steam hissed where the stream met the embers, rising in ghostly tendrils into the cold morning air. The stench of burnt wood and charred flesh lingered, mixing with the acrid tang of piss. He sighed, long and deep, shaking off the last drops before fastening his belt.
Behind him, Philippa Eilhart sat atop a stack of crates, one leg crossed over the other, humming a slow, lilting tune. Her fingers tapped absently against the hilt of a dagger resting on her thigh. Around them, the remnants of Kovir's nobility knelt in the soot and blood, their fine silks dirtied, their faces pale. Redanian knights in crimson cloaks held daggers to their throats, the blades gleaming in the morning light.
Dijkstra turned, surveying the scene. The nobles looked up at him, eyes pleading, but he only smirked. "Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "I swear, I haven't even had breakfast yet."
A lord—fat, trembling, reeking of sweat—stammered out something, a plea, a desperate offer. Dijkstra barely heard it. His gaze traveled across the line of kneeling men and women, their jeweled fingers twitching, their lips quivering with half-formed prayers. Once, these were the rulers of Kovir. The merchant kings and silver lords who had built this frozen rock into a fortress of trade and wealth. But wealth was only as strong as the men willing to defend it. And last night had proven they had no such men.
Dijkstra exhaled sharply. "Cut their throats."
The nobles flinched. One tried to scramble to his feet, but the knight behind him drove him back down with a heavy boot. Someone sobbed. Another let out a choked wail before steel sliced through flesh.
One by one, the Redanian knights did their work. Blood pooled across the blackened ground, steaming in the cold. The corpses slumped forward, twitching, the last breaths of Kovir's old order spilling from their lips. Dijkstra rolled his shoulders. "That's done, then."
Philippa let out a soft laugh. "Efficient as ever."
He turned to her. "They would've never bent the knee. Not properly. Not in the way I need."
"You mean the way we need," Philippa corrected, sliding gracefully from her perch. She landed soundlessly, adjusting her gloves as she stepped toward him. The faintest scent of lilac and gooseberries clung to her, an unsettling contrast to the gore at their feet.
Dijkstra grunted. "Fine. We need." He gestured toward the city beyond the harbor, where the last embers of destruction still smoldered. Lan Exeter had suffered through the night, but it still stood. They had been merciful. Had Philippa and her battle mages truly wanted, they could have reduced the entire kingdom to a blackened wasteland before dawn. Kovir's armies had never even reached their ships. They'd died in the streets, in the palace halls, in their beds.
"This kingdom," Dijkstra muttered, watching the Redanian banners ripple from the masts of the warships beyond the docks, "has always belonged to Redania. Now, it simply knows it."
Dijkstra strode through the rubble, Philippa gliding beside him like a shadow. They passed a line of Redanian engineers directing Kovirian prisoners to clear debris. A child's doll lay in the gutter, its porcelain face split by a crack.
"Your bride will be pleased," Philippa said. "Milena's whelp inherits more than Radovid's crown now. A proper empire."
"Don't pretend this offends your delicate morals." Dijkstra ducked beneath a collapsed archway. "You've melted cities for less."
"Melting is simple. Ruling?" Philippa flicked her apple core into a stagnant puddle. "That's where your little lions will starve. You can't forge a throne from fear and barley sacks."
A scream pierced the air ahead. They rounded a corner to find a Redanian patrol dragging a Kovirian merchant from his cellar. The man clutched a sack of silver plates to his chest, eyes wild.
"Thieves!" he shrieked. "This is my—"
A soldier silenced him with a pommel strike.
Dijkstra watched the man collapse. "Let him keep the silver," he said. The soldiers froze. "Hang the plates around his neck. Nail him to the market cross. Let his neighbors see what greed buys."
Philippa arched an eyebrow. "Generous."
"Practical. Let them squabble over crumbs. They'll forget who baked the loaf."
They climbed the steps of the half-ruined governor's mansion, now bristling with Redanian banners. In the courtyard below, a contingent of Redanian clerks hunched over census ledgers, interrogating cobbler's wives and illiterate dockworkers. Potential aldermen.
Milena stood on the balcony, her pregnancy hidden beneath a fur-lined mantle. She stared at the horizon where Poviss's mountains cut the sky.
"Still brooding over your brother's legacy?" Dijkstra said, joining her.
She didn't turn. "He burned mages. You burn cities. History won't know the difference."
"History's written by men who piss on ashes." He gripped the balcony rail, knuckles whitening. "That child in your belly? It'll rule from Pont Vanis to Vizima. No more squabbling duchies. No more Southern knives at our throats."
Milena's hand drifted to her stomach. "And if it's a girl?"
"Then she'll learn to swing an axe."
The carriage wheels crunched over Riedbrune's flower-strewn cobblestones as Vivienne adjusted the silver combs in Anya's braids. The girl sat stiffly in her embroidered doublet, her eyes darting past the velvet curtains to where Geralt rode ahead on Roach.
"Posture," Vivienne chided, tapping Anya's spine. "A lady doesn't slouch."
"A lady doesn't wear armor either," Anya muttered, picking at her lace cuffs.
"Armor comes in many forms. Now—recite the lineage of House Artevelde."
Geralt's low chuckle drifted through the window. "Give the pup a hunt to track, Viv. Not dusty bloodlines."
Vivienne's glare could've frozen the Sansretour. "She'll rule Toussaint and Sodden one day. History is the hunt."
Anya mouthed help me at Geralt.
Riedbrune's pastel townhouses leaned over the road like gossiping matrons, their balconies heavy with honeysuckle and roses. Children cheered from windows, tossing petals into the air as they called, "Long live the White Wolf!"
Geralt's jaw tightened. Three years of this, and it still doesn't sit right.
At the city gates, a broad-shouldered man awaited them, his burgundy doublet straining over a frame better suited to armor than silk. Fulko Artevelde, Lord of Riedbrune, had the bearing of a warrior despite the silver in his beard. The scars on his knuckles told a story Geralt already knew—the night Fulko had taken a poisoned dagger meant for his back.
"Your Grace." Fulko knelt with a grin. "Still letting Roach pick your routes, I see."
Geralt dismounted, tossing him a bottle of Sangreal. "She's got better taste than most courtiers."
Fulko uncorked the bottle with his teeth, drinking deep. "Horse and master both."
Anya slipped from the carriage before Vivienne could stop her, her boots kicking up petals. "Did you really fight an assassin here?"
Fulko winked. "Fought? Flattened him. Your father's bad luck with elves is legendary."
Vivienne emerged like winter's first frost. "Anya. Inside. Now."
The girl groaned but obeyed, casting one last glance at Fulko's hounds lounging by the hearth.
Inside the manor, maps of Lower Sodden sprawled across an oak table, pins marking tax routes and bandit raids. Geralt traced a scarred finger along the Amell foothills.
"Peasant revolts?"
"Pebbles before a rockslide," Fulko grunted. "Bandits in the east, minor skirmishes along the river. No real threats, just the usual headaches."
Geralt nodded. Peace wasn't the absence of conflict, just the absence of wars worth writing about.
As if summoned, the doors creaked open. A Nazairi envoy swept in, black silk robes whispering like serpents. He bowed, offering a blade sheathed in onyx leather.
"From Lord Caladreth. A gift, forged in Belhaven's fires."
Geralt hesitated before drawing the sword. Moonlight slithered down the fuller, catching glyphs etched near the crossguard—prayers or curses, he couldn't tell.
The envoy's gaze flicked toward Anya, who whispered with Fulko's hounds by the hearth. "My lord also sends… admiration for your house's growing strength."
Vivienne stiffened, her hand settling on Geralt's arm. He could feel the tension in her fingers. He knew what she wanted him to say.
Instead, he let out a slow breath. Then, with practiced ease, he returned the sword to its sheath and inclined his head.
"My thanks."
Vivienne's fingers twitched. A silent protest. But Geralt had already made his choice.
The envoy bowed deeply. "May it serve you well, White Wolf."
Geralt watched him go, the weight of the blade lingering in his hands. He could hear the unspoken words behind Vivienne's measured silence. You should have refused.
Maybe. But refusing would have been an insult. And Geralt knew enough of courtly games to understand the price of one ill-placed slight.
Later, in the torchlit stables, Anya crouched beside Roach's stall, her fingers tracing patterns in the hay.
Geralt checked the mare's hooves, his back turned to her. "You're quiet tonight."
Anya hesitated. "Just tired."
A lie. But he let it stand.
He knelt beside her, catching the fresh scars on her palms—Eskel's "lessons" at Dunn Tynne. "You're not a witcher."
"Not yet." Her chin lifted, all Vivienne's steel and none of her polish. "The Order needs—"
"The Order needs you alive." He tugged her braid. "Go. Before your mother recruits the hounds into etiquette lessons."
Anya fled.
Geralt leaned against the stable wall, staring at the Nazairi blade. Three years of peace. Three years of diplomacy, Cirilla's schemes, Anya's training, Vivienne's careful balancing act.
He exhaled.
Tomorrow would bring blades, blood, choices that would carve their names into history's stone.
But tonight, under stars older than crowns, he was simply a father. A man. A wolf guarding his den.
Geralt sat at the head of the table, arms resting on the worn oak, the parchment before him—Cirilla's letter, her unmistakable imperial seal already broken. Across from him, Palmerin shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Damien, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Lambert leaned back in his chair, smirking as he swirled the last dregs of wine in his goblet. Regis sat beside him, silent, watching Geralt with the patience of someone who had seen too many wars unfold the same way.
Palmerin exhaled. "Cirilla's orders are clear. The Nilfgaardian legions will be in Lower Sodden next week. A full military exercise."
"So," Lambert said, voice thick with sarcasm, "our dear Empress wants a show of force in Sodden. Can't blame her, really. When you've got an empire built on war, might as well keep the troops busy. But tell me, Geralt—how does it feel, huh? Going from killing Nilfgaardians to playing house with 'em?"
Geralt didn't rise to the bait. He exhaled slowly, eyes still on the letter. "It's about keeping the region stable."
"Stable?" Lambert scoffed. "You think marching Nilfgaardian legions through Sodden keeps things stable? Feels more like pressing a dagger to the throat of every noble who swore loyalty to you instead of Nilfgaard. Then again, guess we shouldn't be surprised. You've gone from Witcher to Duke to, what now? Imperial lapdog?"
Damien shot Lambert a glare, jaw tight. "Watch your tongue, Witcher. You're speaking to Toussaint's ruler."
Lambert shrugged. "Oh, I know exactly who I'm speaking to. Just wondering if he still remembers who the fuck he used to be."
Silence settled in the room, thick and tense. The fire crackled, and outside, the wind howled against the stone walls.
Regis, ever the mediator, finally spoke, his tone smooth, measured. "Lambert has a sharp tongue, but his concern isn't misplaced. A military exercise—especially one under Nilfgaard's banner—Meve will see this as provocation. A military exercise this close to her border…"
Across the table, Fulko Artevelde, the Nilfgaardian prefect, steepled his fingers. "The Empress expects loyalty, Toussaint may enjoy a level of autonomy, but it remains under Nilfgaard's dominion. The military exercise is not merely a suggestion—it is a statement. A necessary one."
"Oh, hear that? A 'necessary statement.' Fancy way of saying 'fall in line or else.'" Lambert let out a low laugh and turned back to Geralt. "So what's it gonna be? You bending the knee all the way, or still pretending you've got a say in this?"
Geralt ignored him, turning instead to Damien. "How ready are the forces in Sodden?
Damien sat straighter, his response immediate. "The Ducal Guard is prepared. The local garrisons are disciplined, but they were not trained for large-scale maneuvers alongside Nilfgaardian legions. If the Empress insists on this exercise, I suggest limiting our involvement—keep it symbolic rather than operational. Let the Nilfgaardians march, but don't let them dictate our movements."
Fulko arched a brow. "You would propose Toussaint appear weak in the eyes of the Empire?"
"I would propose we appear strategic. There's a difference." Damien replied sharply.
Regis nodded. "A measured approach may prevent this from escalating further. But it does not address the larger concern. Liam de Coronata was once paid to rule Toussaint. Meve backed him when Anna Henrietta was dying, hoping to place him on the ducal throne of Toussaint. If the Order of the Verdant Night hadn't intervened, you and Vivienne wouldn't be ruling now. What if Meve is already aligning herself with Redania? What if she's simply waiting for the right moment to strike?"
Geralt exhaled. He had known this was coming. He had done nothing—sent no real message to Meve beyond a half-hearted envoy, no grand gesture to ease her concerns or assure her that Toussaint had no stake in Redania's ambitions.
"I thought diplomacy through trade would be enough."
Lambert shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Trade? Fucking trade? Geralt, you ever seen a queen change her mind over a better grain deal? Rivia still remembers you deserting them. Meve remembers. And now you walk back into this mess, standing shoulder to shoulder with Nilfgaard? You think she's just gonna smile and take the bribe?"
Geralt didn't answer. He knew Lambert was right. Economic deals could patch wounds, but they didn't erase grudges. Meve had every reason to doubt him—doubt his allegiances.
Finally, he spoke. "The exercise will proceed. But it will be controlled. Toussaint will take part—enough to satisfy the Empress, but not enough to be seen as an outright threat to Rivia or Lyria."
Geralt looked to Damien. "Make the preparations, but keep our forces separate from Nilfgaard's as much as possible."
Damien nodded. "Understood."
Lambert rose, stretching.
"Well, fuck. Guess that's settled. I'll drink to that. Or maybe I'll drink to the shitstorm coming our way. Either way, I'll be drinking."