The great hall of Kaer Morhen felt warmer than usual that night with a new face around.
Snow clawed at the broken windows, wind howling through the stone, but inside the hearth roared high.
Geralt stood near the doorway, snow still melting from his shoulders.
Beside him stood the child.
Small. Wrapped in wolf fur. Chin lifted as if daring the world to question her presence.
Lambert stared openly.
Eskel blinked once, then again.
"…You brought a girl, Don't tell me this is..." Lambert said finally.
Geralt removed his gloves slowly. "I noticed, and yes."
Lambert exchanged a look with Eskel. "We don't exactly have dresses in the armory."
The child crossed her arms. "Good. Because I don't wear them."
Lambert's brows rose.
Eskel's scarred face softened into a smile.
Vesemir stepped forward, studying her carefully. His gaze was not surprised, only thoughtful.
"So," the old witcher said, voice deep. "You finally decided to honor the Law."
Geralt's expression didn't change. "Seems I did, some people kept nagging me about it."
The girl looked between them and huffed lightly. "If you're disappointed, sorry to ruin your hopes. I can try growing a beard if it helps."
Silence.
Then Lambert barked a laugh.
"Oh, I like her."
Eskel nodded faintly. "Sharp tongue."
Vesemir's lips twitched.
"You won't find a fluffy bed here," Lambert warned. "Or silk pillows. Or servants."
The girl snorted.
"I didn't bring any silk with me."
She stepped forward boldly, boots scraping against stone.
"I asked to come here."
Geralt's eyes flicked down to her briefly.
Lambert folded his arms. "Asked, did you? And what kind of teenager wants to come to a keep full of Witchers."
"Yes," she replied firmly. "I want to learn to fight."
Lambert glanced at Geralt. "You bring us a princess who wants to swing steel."
"She's not wrong for wanting it, after what we've been through on the road here." Geralt muttered.
The girl shot Lambert a challenging look. "If you're scared I'll outmatch you, I can start with someone easier."
Eskel coughed to hide a laugh.
Lambert pointed at her. "Careful, pup."
"Pup?" she shot back instantly.
Vesemir let out a quiet rumble of amusement.
Geralt leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching it unfold.
Across the hall, Sebastian stood near the table where weapons lay stacked. He hadn't said a word since entering.
He knew.
The moment he saw her.
The white hair. The sharp green eyes. The way she carried herself despite the long ride.
'It worked,' he thought quietly.
His plan. The letter. The warning.
Geralt had gone. And he had brought her.
Sebastian exhaled slowly, something easing in his chest.
"I'll go and sharpen the blades," he said casually, turning away before anyone studied his expression too closely.
Vesemir nodded absentmindedly.
Sebastian sat near the hearth, drawing a whetstone along silver with slow, steady strokes.
Cirilla watched him as he moved away.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
There was something about him.
Familiar.
His face exactly.
She turned her head slightly toward Geralt.
"Is that the one you mentioned?" she asked quietly. "Sebastian? Your apprentice?"
Geralt followed her gaze.
"Yeah," he said. "That's him, but he isn't my apprentice alone, he is the student of everyone here."
He paused.
"Though he's nearly a full-fledged witcher by now."
Vesemir glanced between Geralt and Cirilla, catching the tone.
"Seems you two are already close," the old witcher observed.
Cirilla shrugged, trying to look indifferent.
"Geralt's a nice person," she said bluntly. "Better than most knights I've seen back in Cintra."
Lambert scoffed. "That's not a high bar."
She ignored him.
"I've always wanted to learn swordsmanship. And leave Cintra." Her jaw tightened slightly. "Grandmother finally allowed it for some reason... even though she said to me long ago since I was a little child not to trust the white haired Witcher if he appeared to me one day."
Her voice softened just a fraction.
"Uncle Ermion told me about the whole story of my birth, the Law of Surprise, my parents.. So I knew… someday… I might end up here and it didn't sound too bad."
Silence lingered briefly.
Vesemir studied her again, this time differently.
"Such maturity," he murmured. "What are they teaching children these days?"
"I'm not a child!" Ciri responded.
His gaze drifted to Sebastian, who was calmly sharpening steel with a focus far beyond his years.
Two teenagers in one hall.
Neither truly children.
Vesemir looked back at her.
"You're not afraid of us?" he asked plainly.
Of the scars. The eyes. The rumors.
Of what this place truly was.
Cirilla looked around the hall, the cracked walls, the battered armor, the firelit faces of men who had walked through death more times than she could imagine.
She lifted her chin.
"No."
She met Vesemir's gaze without flinching.
"I'm also not afraid of wolves or monsters."
Across the hall, Sebastian's whetstone paused for just a moment.
Then resumed.
****
The long oak table in Kaer Morhen's hall had seen, contracts divided, and comrades buried.
Tonight, it held bowls of thick stew, black bread, salted meat and something far rarer.
Laughter.
Lambert was halfway through recounting a botched contract involving a "bruxa who fancied poetry" when Eskel nearly choked on his ale.
Cirilla snorted into her bowl before she could stop herself.
All four witchers looked at her.
She froze for half a moment, then lifted her spoon again as if nothing had happened.
Lambert grinned. "Careful, princess."
"I'm not a princess here," she shot back automatically.
"Good," Vesemir said from the head of the table. "Because royalty doesn't wash its own plates."
Ciri shrugged. "I can wash plates."
Lambert leaned back in his chair, studying her openly now.
"So you've ridden through half the Continent and don't complain about cold, mud, or stew that tastes like boiled boots?"
She tasted it again thoughtfully.
"…It does taste like boots."
Eskel laughed.
Geralt hid the faint curve of his mouth behind his mug.
Across the table, Sebastian ate quietly.
Straight back. Yellow eyes catching the firelight the same way the others' did.
Ciri had noticed that immediately.
The eyes.
Not just Geralt. Not just Lambert and Eskel.
Sebastian's were the same, cat-like, reflective, unnatural.
But he was younger.
Much younger than them.
And yet he carried himself like them.
She kept stealing glances at him between bites.
The way he listened more than he spoke. The way he scanned the room without seeming to.
Finally, she leaned slightly toward Geralt, lowering her voice.
"Sebastian," she whispered. "He's like you, cat eyes and all."
Geralt didn't look at her. "He is."
"He went through it too that trial?"
A pause.
Geralt's jaw shifted slightly.
"Yes."
Ciri hesitated.
"At the same age as you?"
Geralt shook his head faintly.
"Younger."
That caught her attention.
She blinked. "Younger?"
Geralt's voice lowered further.
"Much younger.. It was a gamble. To save his life. Vesemir wasn't certain he'd survive."
Across the table, Vesemir's gaze flickered briefly toward them but he said nothing.
"It worked," Geralt finished.
Ciri looked back at Sebastian.
He didn't look fragile.
He didn't look like someone who had barely survived anything.
He looked… steady and capable.
"I'll ask Uncle Vesemir later," she murmured thoughtfully. "About the Trials. Maybe I'll do them too."
Geralt actually laughed this time, a rare, genuine sound.
"No," he said firmly.
She frowned. "Why not?"
"Because we won't be doing any of that."
His tone shifted.
"The risk is too high. Most don't survive. We stopped for a reason. What happened with Sebastian… was a very rare exception."
"A very dangerous one."
Ciri absorbed that quietly.
"I see."
But her eyes drifted back to Sebastian again.
He felt different from the others.
Quieter.
Sebastian, meanwhile, wasn't tasting the stew at all or listening to their whispers.
His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the firelight.
'If the timing is right…'
'Nilfgaard must have invaded Cintra by now.'
His grip on the spoon tightened slightly.
'We don't get news up here. Not real news.'
The north was isolated. Snowed in. Forgotten.
'But at least… Geralt brought her.'
'The one they wanted most.'
His jaw clenched subtly.
'How do I even ask Geralt if he knows about it?'
He barely registered the conversation shifting around him.
"Seb?"
He blinked.
Geralt was looking at him.
All of them were.
Sebastian straightened slightly. "Oh.. yeah. I'm listening."
Lambert smirked. "You look like you're plotting to overthrow the keep."
"Thinking," Sebastian corrected calmly.
Geralt tilted his head slightly.
"So what do you think?"
Sebastian hesitated.
"Think about what?"
Lambert laughed. "Gods, he really wasn't listening."
Geralt ignored Lambert.
"Since you're skilled enough now," Geralt continued evenly, "why don't you teach her?"
Sebastian froze.
"…Teach her?"
Ciri's eyes widened slightly.
Geralt nodded toward her.
"You'd make a decent sparring partner. You're close in age, it's far better than a training dummy. Just go easy on her."
Sebastian stared at him like he'd just suggested jumping off the keep walls.
"What? No. I'm no teacher."
Vesemir leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach.
"We've never trained girls before," he admitted thoughtfully.
Lambert opened his mouth.
Vesemir silenced him with a look.
"But, what Gerlat just suggested.." the old witcher continued, eyes settling on Sebastian, "that doesn't sound like a bad idea."
Sebastian frowned slightly.
"I wouldn't know where to start."
"You start," Eskel said mildly, "the same way we started you."
Sebastian's gaze flickered.
Vesemir nodded.
"You'll notice her mistakes. Correcting them will sharpen your own discipline. Naturally we will do our part as well, we've got nothing to do this winter anyways."
Ciri leaned forward slightly, eyes bright.
"Well, it's fine by me. And I won't go easy on you even if you do."
Lambert burst into laughter. "Gods, I really like her."
Sebastian looked at her properly now.
Really looked.
She met his gaze without flinching.
There was no fear there.
Only a stubborn look.
Something in his expression shifted,
"…Fine," he said finally.
"But if she bruises easily, that's not my fault."
And Ciri grinned sharply at that challenge.
/-\
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