Chapter Text
The fire had dwindled to coals. Geralt lay beneath sweat-damp linens, his breath shallow, jaw clenched as if fighting even now—through fever, pain, and poison. Every so often his body flinched, not from dreams, but from the fire crawling in his blood.
Yennefer leaned over him, dabbing at his brow with a cloth already soaked through. Her sleeves were stained, her hair pulled back with less care than habit. She’d changed the bandages twice in the last hour and still the bleeding came. Slower now—but darker.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Ciri whispered from across the room, arms wrapped around herself.
Yennefer didn’t answer.
“Yen.” Ciri stepped closer. “This isn’t just an infection. That creature’s venom—it’s doing something to him.”
“I know,” Yennefer said quietly.
Geralt stirred, a soft groan escaping as he twisted toward the pain. Yennefer caught his shoulder, steadying him with a hand pressed firm and shaking.
They waited in silence as the moment passed. When he stilled again, Yennefer stood and crossed to the corner alcove, beginning to mix another decoction by heart.
“Lambert said he’d be gone twenty minutes,” Ciri murmured. “Back to town for fresh bandages and—what, stronger spirits? As if we need more Elixirs. None seems to have helped yet.”
Yennefer ground the valerian harder than necessary. “He’s trying to be useful.”
“He’s worried.”
“So am I.”
Ciri hesitated. Then she said, carefully, “Do you think he knows? About Regis?”
Yennefer paused mid-turn, eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t know.”
“Geralt didn’t, not at first.”
“He knew enough when it mattered,” Yennefer said.
“Still,” Ciri said. “Maybe Lambert wouldn’t see it either. And even if he did…”
Yennefer turned back to the hearth, swirling the decoction until it gave off a bitter, biting steam. “Even if he did, he might not care?”
Ciri nodded. “He’s stubborn, but he’s loyal. If Regis can help save Geralt…”
“He’s still a higher vampire,” Yennefer snapped, then immediately softened her voice. “Even if he’s reformed. Even if he’s one of the good ones. That’s a tall thing to swallow.”
Ciri crouched near the hearth. “You’re scared.”
“I’m cautious,” Yennefer said. “There’s a difference.”
“Geralt wasn’t.”
Yennefer met her eyes at that, tired but still sharp. “Geralt has strange taste in friends.”
“Yes,” Ciri said. “But he chooses carefully.”
There was a long pause.
“Then should I send word?” Ciri asked. Her voice lowered, a whisper between heartbeats. “To Regis?”
Yennefer looked back at the bed. At the man who’d fought for all of them again and again and now lay burning alive from the inside out. Geralt’s hands gripped the sheets as he let out a low groan of pain. The poison wasn’t retreating. It was spreading.
She opened her mouth—
—but the door creaked.
Lambert entered, shoulders hunched, face drawn with more than exhaustion. He looked between them and the bed before shaking his head. “Nothing from the herbalist. Idiot gave me lavender and asked if we wanted it gift-wrapped.”
Yennefer didn’t respond.
Lambert stepped to Geralt’s side. His brows pulled down as he took in the waxy skin, the set of Geralt’s jaw even in unconsciousness. “Shit. Hasn’t improved at all?”
“He’s holding,” Yennefer said, voice a shade too calm.
Lambert shook his head. “He’s doing more than that. Don’t know how the bastard’s still breathing.”
He dropped into the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving Geralt’s face.
Ciri crossed her arms tightly. “He needs help. From someone who knows what to do.”
“We’re not giving up on him, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“I’m not,” Ciri said. “I’m saying we need to send word for help.”
Lambert glanced at her. “To who?”
Ciri hesitated.
Yennefer intervened before the question turned. “Someone who owes us a favor.”
Lambert grunted. “Long as they can bleed a wound or burn a toxin, they’re welcome.”
He leaned back, eyes never straying far from the witcher’s face.
Geralt stirred again—barely. But they all leaned in at once.
Still fighting.
Still here.