Chapter 10: THE GIRL WITH ELDER BLOOD
Three days passed before I could approach her without Geralt materializing from the shadows.
The Witchers had a training schedule—predictable, methodical, designed to maximize effectiveness while minimizing the chance of everyone murdering each other from proximity fatigue. Mornings belonged to Vesemir and his relentless corrections. Afternoons split between patrol duties and individual practice. Evenings were for rest, meals, and the kind of quiet companionship that didn't require conversation.
Ciri trained at different hours. Deliberately separated, I assumed, to give her space from the overwhelming presence of four Witchers who had collectively decided she was made of spun glass.
But schedules have gaps. And I'd become very good at finding them.
Dusk on the third day found me alone in the secondary training yard—the smaller one, partially sheltered from the wind by a crumbling wall that Vesemir kept meaning to repair. I worked through sword forms that were finally starting to feel natural, the disconnect between mind and body narrowing with each repetition.
[SKILL PROGRESSION: SWORD MASTERY (STEEL) +2%]
The system tracked progress I could feel now. Each form flowed into the next with less conscious effort, the body's ancient knowledge finally accepting guidance from the consciousness driving it.
I sensed her before I heard her footsteps.
The Ciri-Link flared—curiosity, nervousness, determination—broadcasting her emotional state like a beacon I couldn't ignore. I lowered my practice sword and turned to face the entrance.
She stood in the archway, silhouetted against the fading light, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Up close, without the barrier of gratings and distance, she looked younger than I'd expected. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, carrying the weight of someone twice her age in her eyes.
"You're the one from the basement."
Her voice carried the same mix of princess-formal and soldier-blunt that I remembered from the show, but hearing it in person was different. More real. More human.
"And you're the one everyone's worried about."
Something flickered across her face—irritation, maybe, at being defined by others' concerns. Then her mouth quirked into something that was almost a smile.
"Fair point."
She stepped into the training yard, moving with the careful grace of someone very aware of her own body. The practice sword at her hip suggested she'd been heading somewhere before curiosity redirected her.
"They talk about you," she said. "Lambert especially. Says you crawled out of the earth like a ghoul and somehow convinced Vesemir not to cut your head off."
"That's... approximately accurate. Minus the ghoul part."
"What's the accurate version?"
I considered the question. Lies would be easier, but the Link pulsed with her desire for honesty—she'd had enough people treating her like she couldn't handle the truth.
"I woke up in a sealed chamber three levels below where your storage rooms end. No memory of how I got there. No memory of much at all, actually." I gestured at myself, the ancient body that still didn't feel quite mine. "Just this, and abilities I'm still figuring out."
"That sounds terrifying."
"It was." I met her eyes directly, letting her see the truth beneath the words. "And then I realized terror doesn't help, so I adapted."
The Link flared again—recognition, resonance, the feeling of finding someone who understood something you couldn't explain to anyone else. Ciri's emotional state shifted from curiosity to something warmer.
"Everyone here keeps telling me to relax. To trust the process. To stop pushing so hard." She crossed her arms, frustration bleeding through. "As if relaxing is possible when you can feel something inside you that wants to tear the world apart."
She's talking about her powers. The Elder Blood, the chaos magic, the dimensional abilities she can't control.
"What does it feel like?" I asked. "When it builds up?"
She hesitated, clearly unused to anyone asking the question instead of trying to answer it for her. "Like... pressure. Behind my eyes, in my chest. Like something's trying to get out and I'm the only thing holding it back."
The Ciri-Link pulsed in sympathy. I winced before I could stop myself, the resonance of her distress amplifying through whatever connection bound us together.
"Headache?"
"Gets worse sometimes." I rubbed my temple, covering the reaction as something ordinary. "Since I woke up. The healers say it's just adjustment."
Lie. There are no healers. But she doesn't need to know the connection goes both ways.
Ciri's expression softened slightly. "I get those too. Since... since everything."
We stood in the fading light, two people carrying burdens they hadn't chosen, finding unexpected common ground in the gap between what they were and what they wanted to be.
"Can I give you unsolicited advice?" I asked.
Her eyebrow rose. "Can I stop you?"
"Probably not." I lowered my practice sword, letting it hang at my side. "Powers aren't good or evil. They're force. Like a river or a storm. What matters isn't having them—it's what you do with them."
"Easy to say when you're not the one everyone's afraid of."
"Who says they're not afraid of me?" I smiled slightly. "Lambert definitely keeps one hand near his sword whenever I'm around."
That surprised a small laugh out of her—genuine, startled, quickly suppressed. The Link registered her surprise at finding something funny.
"Does it get easier?" she asked, voice quieter now. "Controlling it, I mean. Understanding what you are."
I looked at the mountains surrounding us, ancient peaks that had watched civilizations rise and fall and would probably watch a few more before they were done. Somewhere in those heights, the wind carried snow that would eventually blanket the fortress in white.
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "Ask me in a few months."
Another laugh, less surprised this time. She was starting to relax—not completely, never completely, but enough that the Link's constant buzz of anxiety had faded to something manageable.
"Same time tomorrow?"
The question came before I could think about it. Before I could remember Geralt's warning, or the way his eyes had tracked my attention, or the implicit threat in his voice when he'd told me Ciri was off-limits.
Ciri considered for a moment. Then nodded.
"Same time tomorrow."
She headed back toward the main hall, pausing at the archway to glance back once. The Link registered something I couldn't quite identify—hope, maybe, or the tentative beginnings of trust.
I didn't turn to look at the wall where Geralt watched from above. I could feel his presence without seeing him, the weight of his attention like a physical pressure against my back.
He saw everything. Heard everything. He's going to have questions.
But his sword didn't clear its sheath. His footsteps didn't approach.
For now, that would have to be enough.
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