The fire had burned low, reduced to a lazy bed of embers that painted the great hall in molten gold and shadow.
Vesemir's door had been shut for hours. The old wolf, worn thin from teaching and memory alike, had surrendered to sleep without ceremony.
But the younger wolves remained.
Three tankards. Three witchers. One rare, stolen night of quiet.
Lambert leaned back in his chair, boots propped on the edge of the table, swirling the liquid in his mug like a connoisseur pretending this wasn't cheap, rough alcohol.
Eskel sat across from him, relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself, Geralt occupied the space between them, white hair catching firelight, eyes half-lidded not drunk yet, but well on his way.
"Been a while since it was just us," Lambert muttered. "No contracts. No corpses. No Vesemir lecturing us about posture and discipline."
Eskel smirked. "Give it time. He'll lecture us in the morning about drinking, too."
Geralt took a slow drink. "He used to lecture us for breathing."
"Still does," Lambert said. "Just now with more disappointment."
They shared a quiet chuckle.
Lambert squinted at Geralt, eyes narrowing with drunken curiosity.
"So," he drawled, "how's your favorite bard these days? The peacock. Dandelion. Still writing songs about your… emotional range?"
Geralt groaned softly. "If he is, I'd rather not hear them."
Eskel smiled faintly. "Last time I heard one, he rhymed your name with 'pain,' 'rain,' and 'tragic romantic disdain.'"
Lambert laughed loud and sharp. "Tragic romantic disdain? Sounds about right."
Geralt shot him a flat look. "You two are insufferable."
"And yet," Lambert said, lifting his mug, "here we are. Still alive. Still drinking with you."
Eskel tipped his mug in agreement. "A miracle."
Lambert leaned forward, grin widening.
"Speaking of tragedies… Yennefer."
The word landed like a spark on dry grass.
Geralt's jaw tightened. He looked away, staring into his drink.
"It's none of your business," he muttered. "Besides… I haven't seen her for a while."
Lambert scoffed. "Sorceresses are bad news. Beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely guaranteed to ruin your life."
Eskel chuckled. "Enough Lambert, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it."
Lambert pointed a finger at him. "And that's why we need to talk about it."
Geralt huffed quietly.
Eskel tilted his head, voice softer. "You miss her."
Geralt didn't answer right away. He lifted his mug, drank, then set it down with a muted clink.
"Let's talk about literally anything else," he said dryly.
Lambert grinned, far too pleased. "Fine. How about that contract in Novigrad. The one where you fought a troll and somehow ended up apologizing to it."
"It was intelligent," Geralt replied flatly. "And it had nothing to do with the contract. The monster was something else."
Eskel smirked. "You still apologized to a troll."
"It was a mistake to attack the troll, you know our code." Geralt muttered.
Lambert wiped at his eyes. "Saints preserve us. The Butcher of Blaviken, Slayer of Beasts… and Protector of Troll Emotions."
Geralt shook his head, but he was smiling now.
For a while, the laughter came easier. Tankards sat half-emptied. The great hall smelled of alcohol, smoke, old leather.
Eskel leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, gaze drifting toward Geralt with the kind of look that meant trouble was about to be stirred.
"Oh.. right," he said casually, as if recalling a half-forgotten anecdote. "Speaking of old mistakes…"
Lambert smirked. "There's a lifetime of those between us."
Eskel ignored him and looked at Geralt.
"Since we finally have an apprentice," he continued, voice filled with curiosity, "one who's already undergone the Trials… what about your Child of Surprise? Wanna bring them too?"
Geralt's fingers tightened slightly around his mug.
"You intend to claim him or her?" Eskel pressed. "You know the rules. Destiny. Misfortune. The whole cursed business."
Geralt lifted the tankard and drank, eyes unfocused, staring somewhere far beyond the stone walls of Kaer Morhen.
"I have no intention of doing that," he said at last.
Lambert said. "Well, that's expected."
Geralt's jaw flexed.
"My Child of Surprise is the grandchild of Calanthe of Cintra," he said. "I don't even know their name. But the child is in good hands. And I'm fairly certain the moment I step foot in Cintra, the queen will launch a manhunt in my name."
Eskel exhaled slowly. "Well, you did claim her grandchild through an ancient law, she must hate you."
"She does," Geralt replied dryly. "But that doesn't bother me, it was a mistake to do that and I don't care about what happens now."
Lambert snorted. "You really set yourself up with fate, didn't you? Could've invoked the Law with a peasant. A farmer. Some poor fool who'd give you a goat or a sack of grain."
He gestured lazily with his mug.
"Witchers in old times used the Law of Surprise with peasants. Not kings and queens."
Geralt stared into his drink.
"I know," he muttered. "It was a mistake. I didn't expect…"
His voice trailed off.
Eskel tilted his head. "Didn't expect destiny to bite?"
"Didn't expect a child," Geralt replied flatly.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Eskel smirked, breaking it.
"Besides," he added lightly, "you're terrible with children."
Lambert barked out a laugh. "Terrible? That's generous."
Geralt shot them a look. "I'll remember that next time I'm saving your lives."
They laughed.
But not all ears in Kaer Morhen belonged to seasoned witchers.
Down the corridor, tucked near a stone pillar and half-hidden by shadow, Sebastian stood quietly, heart thudding.
He hadn't meant to listen.
Yet the words had reached him anyway.
Child of Surprise.
Cintra.
Calanthe.
he knew which child they were talking about.
His grip tightened around the wooden sword he'd been carrying back to his room.
"…He's clearly talking about Cirilla," Sebastian murmured under his breath.
The name tasted heavy.
Fragments of memory surfaced a dusty road, wagons, distant banners, the echo of Nilfgaardian and Cintrian colors, and a fleeting image of a small girl in Cintra's streets. Pale hair. Green eyes. A child that didn't quite fit the world around her.
"Alongside my family on the road… we passed through Cintra," he whispered to himself. "I'm sure I saw a little girl who fits her description. But I wasn't certain back then… mainly because I didn't have my memories.."
His eyes widened.
Realization struck like a blade sliding between ribs.
"Hold on…" he breathed.
Thoughts unraveled too fast to catch.
Nilfgaard.
My father.
Cintra.
Calanthe.
Destiny.
War.
Sebastian's chest tightened.
"…I'm Nilfgaardian and," he whispered. "My father… his mission… Cintra… Nilfgaard…"
His voice dropped to a strained murmur.
"Shit. The war will break out in a few years… and.."
For a moment, the stone walls felt smaller.
The laughter from the hall echoed faintly.
Sebastian stared into the dim corridor, expression shifting from boyish composure to something sharper, the burden of knowledge he could not yet share.
"…I need to convince him somehow to get to her, before the war does first." he murmured quietly.
Geralt lifted his head suddenly.
His hand paused mid-sip.
Something… shifted.
A sound too soft for normal ears. A presence out of place.
He turned, pale hair sliding over his shoulder.
"Seb?" he called. "Is that you?"
'…Shit,' Seb muttered under his breath. 'Can't hide from a witcher, huh.'
For a heartbeat, only silence answered.
Then a faint scuff of boots.
A small figure stepped into the firelight, caught halfway between shadow and warmth.
Sebastian scratched the back of his head, wearing a sheepish grin.
Lambert squinted at him, leaning forward with a crooked smirk.
"Kid, you sneak like a drunk cat."
Sebastian shrugged lightly.
"Yeah… it's me. Couldn't sleep."
Eskel lifted his mug toward him.
"That won't do, Seb. You've got lessons in the morning."
Lambert snorted.
"Force yourself to sleep, or you won't have the energy to survive Vesemir tomorrow."
Eskel chuckled.
"Trust us. You'll need it."
The three older witchers laughed warm and drunk.
Sebastian laughed along.
"Alright," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll try."
He turned toward the hallway, muttering to himself as he walked:
'Phew… gotta get back to my room now.'
His footsteps faded.
Geralt watched him go a moment longer than necessary.
There was something about the boy.
Too composed.
Too aware.
Lambert nudged him with his elbow.
"You look like you're trying to solve a riddle, White Wolf."
Geralt exhaled slowly and lifted his mug again.
"…I'm too drunk to think straight," he muttered.
Eskel smirked.
"First wise thing you've said all tonight."
/-\
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