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Yennefer stands on the bluff, rain clinging to her hair, earth clumping on her shoes. All she can think of is a tiny body, half solid with the vacuum between spaces, nestled in the sand.
You won, the only way you could, she thinks. She had been so close, only for Geralt to reveal it was a lie. Lovers would only disappoint.
She suppresses the first sobs, before chiding herself and letting forth a wail. She will exorcise the tendrils of djinn-wish threaded through her. She has fought too hard to be bound, will emerge washed clean by the rain.