CINTRA -
Cintra greeted Geralt with its bells, sunlight gilded the towers, market bells rang and laughter drifted through the streets where banners fluttered in the sea breeze. Children ran through cobbled lanes, bakers shouted their wares, guards stood relaxed at their posts.
Too relaxed.
Geralt moved through the city with his hood drawn low, blending into crowds that didn't notice him, or pretended not to. Cintra looked prosperous. Untouched. Safe.
And that was precisely what unsettled him.
'Too calm,' he thought. 'Cities on the brink of war and destruction don't look like this.'
He slipped into a quieter district and pushed open the door to a modest inn tucked between two tall stone houses. The air inside smelled of roasted meat, ale, and warm wood. A lute hummed somewhere in the corner, but conversation died down when the witcher stepped in.
Eyes followed him.
As always.
Geralt ignored them and moved toward the back, where a familiar figure sat nursing a cup of mulled wine.
Mousesack, also known as Ermion, as the druids called him looked up with a slow smile.
"You walk into Cintra like a ghost, Geralt," he said lightly. "Careful. Ghosts aren't always welcome."
Geralt slid into the seat across from him. "Neither are druids who meddle in royal affairs. Yet here you are."
Ermion chuckled. "And here you are. I thought you preferred forests, monsters, and miserable roads."
"I still do," Geralt replied dryly. "Cintra makes my skin itch."
A serving girl passed, placing a mug in front of him. Geralt barely glanced at it before speaking again.
"How is she doing?"
Ermion's brows rose, amused. "Straight to the heart of it, I see. So… you finally intend to honor the Law of Surprise and claim the child? After twelve years?"
He leaned back, studying Geralt with a sharp, teasing gaze.
"Though I admit," Ermion added with a grin, "I'm surprised you even know your Child of Surprise is a she."
Geralt replied. "It was mentioned in something I received some time ago... first time I knew. Another reason for me to believe that it is speaking the truth."
"I see." Ermion lifted his cup. "Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon is more than doing well. Bright, stubborn, sharp-tongued. So fiercely loved that Queen Calanthe would sooner burn Cintra than let her fall into a witcher's hands."
Geralt's mouth twitched. "I never intended to take her."
Ermion tilted his head. "Then why come?"
Geralt drew out the folded letter and set it on the table. "Because I received this."
Ermion glanced at the parchment. The seal caught his eye, and his expression shifted, only slightly.
"Nilfgaardian source," Geralt continued. "Claims Cintra is doomed. Says Nilfgaard will march. That Emhyr has plans for the girl."
A beat.
Ermion let out a breath through his nose. "How did you…?"
Geralt's eyes narrowed. "You know something."
Ermion hesitated, then sighed. "Nilfgaard is moving. That much is true. Rumors from the south grow louder by the day. The Queen has reinforced defenses, doubled patrols, stockpiled supplies. Cintra is preparing for the worst."
Geralt took a slow sip of his drink. "Preparation doesn't win wars."
His gaze hardened.
"What do you think?" he asked quietly. "Can Cintra hold Nilfgaard alone?"
Ermion stared into his cup. "I'm not sure that's a question anyone can answer."
He looked up again, thoughtful.
"How about we go to the Queen?" he suggested carefully. "You can show her this letter. Let her judge its worth."
Geralt shot him a flat look. "Just kill me here instead. It'd be quicker."
Ermion snorted. "You're still breathing, aren't you? No assassins, no heads on spikes. Means Calanthe hasn't.."
He stopped.
Footsteps sounded behind them. Heavy. Armored.
The inn seemed to go silent.
Geralt lifted a finger slightly, pointing over Ermion's shoulder.
Ermion turned.
Five Cintran guards stood there, helms polished, hands on sword hilts. The nearest stepped forward, placing his blade flat on the table.
"Geralt of Rivia," the guard said, voice firm, official. "By order of Queen Calanthe, you are to surrender yourself at once. Lay down your weapons. Resist, and you will be treated as an enemy of the Crown."
Conversations died completely.
Patrons shrank back. A few slipped from their stools. Someone knocked over a chair in their hurry to move away.
Eyes darted between the guards and the witcher, fear, excitement, dread.
Ermion exhaled through his teeth. "Aye… perhaps I spoke too soon."
He turned toward the guards. "Now, hold. The witcher means no harm. He is here on my.."
The guard cut him off sharply. "Mousesack. You advise the Queen. That does not grant you authority over her orders."
His gaze hardened.
"Interfere, and you will be detained as well."
A murmur rippled through the inn. Some patrons crossed themselves. Others leaned forward, hungry for spectacle.
Geralt leaned back in his chair, utterly calm.
He looked at Ermion sidelong. "Seems your hospitality's improved."
Ermion sighed. "You have a talent for arriving at the worst possible moments."
Geralt smiled.
"Story of my life," he muttered.
Then his gaze returned to the guards.
Geralt's hand drifted, slow, instinctive toward the hilt at his back.
Muscle memory. Reflex. An experience of a thousand fights.
Then a voice touched his mind.
'No.'
The word wasn't spoken. It simply appeared inside his thoughts, calm and firm.
'I have a better plan. Trust me. Follow my lead.'
Geralt's fingers paused mid-motion.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't draw.
Across from him, Ermion rose to his feet, adjusting his cloak as if this were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"I didn't say you couldn't arrest him," the druid said evenly to the guards. "But I will accompany you. We'll present him before the Queen herself."
The lead guard frowned. "Our orders are to take him to the dungeon."
Ermion met his gaze without flinching.
"And you will," he replied calmly.
Geralt glanced at him, confused. Their eyes met.
Ermion didn't speak aloud, but his lips moved faintly.
'Trust me.'
Geralt exhaled through his nose.
'This better not be a trap Ermion..' he thought grimly. 'Or I'll feed you to drowners.'
Slowly he lifted his hands away from his weapons.
The guards stepped forward at once.
"Hands where we can see them, witcher, and hand over your swords." one barked. "Move."
A rough hand gripped Geralt's arm, not daring to squeeze too hard, but not gentle either. The patrons drew farther back, pressing into walls and doorways as if proximity alone could curse them.
Whispers followed him.
"Monster…"
"Mutant…"
"Queen's gonna have his head…"
Geralt ignored them all.
As they marched him toward the door, Ermion fell in beside the guards, walking as though he were escorting a guest rather than a prisoner.
Geralt muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the druid to hear."This better be worth it."
/-\
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