Geralt followed Karl through the newly installed wooden door with an unease he could not quite suppress. The hinges gave a soft creak as they entered, and the familiar atmosphere of the inn washed over them—dim lantern light, the thick scent of ale, roasted meat, and aged timber soaked deep into the walls. It should have felt comforting. Instead, tension clung to the air like static before a storm.
The low murmur of conversation inside the tavern abruptly dropped several notches the instant Karl stepped through the threshold. A waiter who had been carrying a tray froze mid-step. A barmaid polishing glasses paused with her rag half-raised. Even a group of dice-throwing patrons at a corner table stopped their game, heads snapping up in unison.
All eyes were on Karl.
"Lord Karl!"
The greetings came almost simultaneously, overlapping in tone but unified in reverence. Behind the counter, the innkeeper—who moments ago had been lazily wiping a pewter mug with a grease-stained cloth—jerked as though shocked. The mug slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the counter. With surprising agility for a man of his round build, he hurried out from behind the bar, his face stretching into a smile so ingratiating it bordered on absurd.
"Lord Karl! Welcome, welcome!" he exclaimed, bowing repeatedly. "For you to visit our humble establishment—what an honor, truly an honor!"
His voice trembled with excitement, eyes shining with admiration.
Karl waved a hand dismissively, already uninterested. His gaze slid past the innkeeper as though the man were no more than furniture, settling instead on a slender figure standing quietly at the counter with her back turned toward them.
Black-and-white attire.
A posture both elegant and unyielding.
And the faint, unmistakable scent of lilac and gooseberries.
Natasha.
Almost imperceptibly, Geralt's steps faltered.
Instinct took over before thought could intervene. He shifted half a step backward, subtly positioning himself behind Karl's slightly broader frame, as though that might shield him from her presence.
Karl felt the movement immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched.
He leaned his head back slightly and muttered in a low, irritated whisper, "Geralt, can't you show even a fraction of the courage you had when facing Adda?"
Karl shot him a sideways glance. "Right now, you don't look anything like the aloof, cold 'White Wolf' everyone talks about."
Geralt swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed as he cleared his throat awkwardly. Embarrassment flickered across his scarred face, a rare crack in his usually impenetrable composure. Still, Karl's words had their effect.
Geralt inhaled slowly.
He straightened, stepped out from behind Karl, and moved to stand beside him. Though his posture was rigid—almost painfully so—he no longer retreated.
He didn't understand it himself.
Before peasants, mercenaries, nobles, even monsters, he could maintain his calm without effort. Violence, blood, death—none of it shook him. Yet the mere presence of Natasha reduced him to something raw and uncertain, like a boy who had done something unforgivable and didn't know how to make amends.
Karl rolled his eyes silently. He knew Geralt's particular brand of self-inflicted suffering all too well. In front of Natasha, the man would never strike back, never argue, never defend himself. He would endure everything in silence.
The two walked forward together, neither speaking.
When they were still several paces away, Karl halted. He had planned to signal Geralt to go on alone while he remained behind. Watching from a distance seemed far more appropriate than inserting himself into whatever emotional battlefield was about to unfold.
Before Karl could do anything, the innkeeper—sharp-eyed despite his obsequious demeanor—caught on instantly.
"I understand," the man said with a knowing smile, bowing slightly. "Completely understand."
Without waiting for instruction, he turned and nearly tiptoed toward the back, vanishing into the kitchen and closing the door firmly behind him. He knew better than to linger when great figures—and especially a certain sorceress—were involved in private matters.
Left with little choice, Karl took a seat at an empty table roughly two meters from the counter. He leaned back casually, resting one arm along the tabletop, assuming the relaxed posture of a spectator ready to enjoy a long-awaited performance.
Geralt cast him a brief glance. Seeing Karl already settled in, clearly unwilling to intervene, Geralt knew retreat was no longer an option.
He squared his shoulders once more.
His heart pounded, but his steps were steady as he approached the woman who haunted his thoughts and disrupted his carefully maintained equilibrium.
He stopped just behind her.
His lips parted.
"Nat—"
Before the name could fully leave his mouth, Natasha moved.
She turned with slow, fluid grace, as elegant as a dancer and as precise as a blade being drawn from its sheath. Her porcelain features were calm, devoid of visible anger, yet far more frightening for it.
Her violet eyes gleamed.
There was no chant.
No grand gesture.
No obvious surge of magical power.
Geralt's medallion remained eerily silent.
Natasha raised her right hand, encased in a black glove, and extended a single slender finger toward him.
"Crack—Sizzle!"
A blinding bolt of white lightning erupted instantly from her fingertip, thick as a man's arm. It tore through the dim inn like a living thing, illuminating the room in violent brilliance as it screamed toward Geralt's face.
His expression changed sharply.
He hadn't expected an attack—not without a word, not with such speed.
But Witchers survived because their bodies reacted faster than thought.
Geralt snarled low in his throat. His hands snapped together in front of his chest, fingers forming a rapid, practiced pattern.
"Hum!"
An unstable, azure-blue energy shield burst into existence before him—the Heliotrop Sign, a Witcher's last defense against magic.
"Boom!"
The lightning slammed into the shield with explosive force. The entire inn was flooded with light, shadows dancing wildly across the walls.
The Sign shuddered.
Cracks spread across its surface like spiderwebs, the strained hum of failing magic filling the air. Natasha had clearly held back, yet even so, the hastily formed defense was pushed to its limits.
Most of the lightning dispersed.
But not all of it.
Several finger-thick arcs of electricity escaped the collapsing shield, twisting like serpents as they shot backward—straight toward Karl's table.
Karl's relaxed expression vanished instantly.
The moment Natasha raised her hand, his eyes had already narrowed. As the stray lightning streaked toward him, contemplation replaced amusement.
He did not move.
Instead, his gaze pierced through the fading glare, locking onto Natasha.
She had not looked at him directly—not once. Her focus had remained firmly on Geralt.
And yet…
Karl's perception, far exceeding that of any ordinary human, caught it—a fleeting sidelong glance, a probe masked beneath indifference.
A test.
"So it was intentional," Karl realized.
She had anticipated Geralt's use of Heliotrop. Calculated the dispersion angle. Predicted exactly where the excess energy would go once the Sign fractured.
On the surface, it was a punishment—a warning meant for Geralt.
In truth, it was something else entirely.
A quiet measurement.
"She's testing me," Karl concluded silently.
The lightning dissipated before reaching him, fading harmlessly into the air, but the message had already been delivered.
Karl leaned back once more, lips curving into a faint, amused smile.
Interesting.
Very interesting indeed.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Robertt45