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    Summary

    “So this is Jaskier,” said Ciri. “Jaskier the bard. Jaskier the friend. Jaskier the one who wrote the only song I’ve ever heard you sing ever.”
    “Yes,” grumbled Geralt, a metallic sound ringing through the air as he took another swipe at his sword. “That Jaskier.”
    A moment of silence passed.
    “He’s mad at you.”
    Geralt’s knife clattered to the ground as he sighed, closing his eyes. “Ciri–”
    “What? I’m not allowed to say that he’s mad at you?” she scoffed. “He’s clearly mad at you. Come on. You keep looking at him with what I think most people would call puppy-dog-eyes and Yennefer practically had to drag him up here anyway even though his hands clearly need some help–”
    “Don’t talk about his hands,” Geralt said seriously, and Ciri stopped her chattering, going still. He went back to his sword, not wanting Ciri to see the guilt he couldn’t hide. “Alright? You can ask him about anything else. Just not the hands.”

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