Chapter 35: THE LAST WISH — Part 3
The djinn came at midnight.
Yennefer had prepared the ritual for hours—circles drawn in substances I didn't want to identify, candles arranged in patterns that hurt to look at directly. Geralt had recovered enough to stand, though his voice was still rough and his movements careful.
"You don't have to do this," he said to me. "Whatever she promised—"
"She saved your life. I owe her this much." I checked my lute—the crack from the Striga fight years ago had been repaired, but I still worried about it. "Besides, someone needs to keep you both from killing each other."
He made that sound—"Hmm"—but didn't argue.
The summoning began.
Yennefer's voice rose in Elder Speech, words of power that resonated in my bones. The air thickened. Reality bent. And then the djinn manifested.
I'd seen monsters before. Drowners at the Temple of Melitele. The Striga in Temeria. Creatures that occupied physical space and could be fought with physical means.
The djinn was different.
It was rage given form—not solid, exactly, but undeniably present. A pressure against existence, a wrongness in the fabric of the world. It screamed without sound, and windows shattered throughout the estate.
"NOW!" Yennefer's hands blazed with chaos magic. "Bind to me! I command you!"
The djinn resisted.
Power crashed against power, Yennefer's will against the elemental fury of an ancient entity. The estate shook. Walls cracked. A chandelier fell, and I barely dodged the crystal shards.
I started playing.
The Shield Ballad poured out of me, forming a semi-visible barrier around myself and Geralt. It was Stage 3 work—the kind I'd practiced in private, never fully revealing to my partner. The shimmer of protection held as debris bounced away from us.
Geralt's eyes widened. "What—"
"Later. Watch her."
Yennefer was losing.
The djinn's power overwhelmed her defenses, chaos magic sputtering against elemental fury. She screamed—not in fear, but in rage, refusing to accept defeat. The ceiling began to collapse.
"Geralt!" I shouted. "You're still connected to it! The wishes—"
He understood. His face went pale, then determined. He pushed through the Shield Ballad—it parted for him, recognizing intent—and moved toward the struggling sorceress.
I couldn't hear what he said. The djinn's fury drowned all sound. But I saw his lips move, saw him speak words that carried weight beyond their volume.
The djinn screamed.
Not in rage—in something else. Binding. Compulsion. The entity writhed against invisible chains, then dissolved into nothing, banished by a wish I hadn't heard.
Yennefer collapsed.
The estate collapsed with her.
I grabbed Geralt—he'd frozen, staring at the sorceress—and dragged him toward the exit. Stones fell around us; I kept the Shield Ballad going until my voice cracked, then switched to Battle Hymn, borrowing strength I didn't have.
We emerged into moonlight as the building came down.
For a moment, I thought we'd lost her. Then I saw movement in the rubble—violet light pushing debris aside. Yennefer pulled herself free, covered in dust but alive.
She crawled toward Geralt. His hand reached for her.
I sat down heavily, muscles screaming from overuse, and watched them find each other in the ruins.
His wish. Whatever he wished for, it bound them.
I knew the story. In the version I remembered, Geralt had wished for their fates to be tied together—a desperate gamble to save her life that had created an unbreakable connection between them. A love that might have been manufactured by magic rather than grown naturally.
And I'm jealous of a wish I didn't even hear.
The thought surprised me with its intensity. Jealous of what? Their connection? Their destined romance? The way she'd looked at him when she woke, like he was the only real thing in a world of illusions?
I wiped dust from my face and said nothing.
They found me later, sitting in the ruins, lute across my lap. The instrument had cracked again—a new fracture along the neck that would need a proper luthier to repair.
"You could have been killed." Yennefer's voice was hoarse but steady. "That barrier you created—it's not supposed to be possible for non-mages."
"I told you. I have a gift."
"Yes. You did." She studied me, and something in her expression had shifted. Curiosity remained, but warmer now. "You stayed. Helped. Even though you clearly didn't trust me."
"Geralt needed you alive. Seemed counterproductive to let you die."
She laughed—a real laugh, unexpected and genuine. "I think I might like you, bard. Despite your secrets."
"I think I might like you too. Despite your tendency to treat people as experiments."
We shared a moment of understanding. Two people who kept things hidden, recognizing the habit in each other.
Geralt approached, still unsteady on his feet. "We should leave before the town decides we caused too much trouble."
"Agreed." I stood, wincing as every muscle protested. "Though I think we left 'too much trouble' behind about two collapsed buildings ago."
We walked away from Rinde as the sun rose, three figures covered in dust and complicated feelings.
Room in this story for my heart, I'd wondered earlier. Looking at Yennefer's hand in Geralt's, I wasn't sure there was.
But maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe some stories had room for more than one kind of love.
We'd see.
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