Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Step, Livi thinks, and forces her foot to move. Step.

Step.

Step.

She’s descended into some sort of fugue-like numbness, which is good, for she’s certain that if she could feel her feet, she would not be able to move. Her riding shoes were not made for walking long distances, and she can feel every rock and twig and bump in the road, the blood from popped blisters soaking her socks, and the rigid struts of the shoes’ short heels poking dully into her own heel-bone with every lurched step forward, all padding of the thin sole having long since worn out.

Still, she judges they were indeed the better choice of footwear—her only other option had been a pair of silk slippers that would have been worn through within a mere few hours upon the packed dirt road, let alone all the scrambling into the scrubs and woodland she has done over the past three days in her attempts to avoid her pursuers. She is pretty sure she has sticks in her hair.

Step, she thinks, and it devolves into a mangled eight-count, as if she’s in some sort of deranged dancing lessons. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…

Eight times eight is sixty four. How many eights has she stepped by now? He brain dissolves into nonsense equations with made-up numbers. She might be delirious.

It will be four days straight she’s been walking, with only snatched eye-blinks of rest here and there, if she makes it to midnight.

She’s not sure if she will. Her water ran out—this morning? She thinks it was this morning, and this stretch of road doesn’t seem to be following the river, and she’s been avoiding the towns, for surely that is where her pursuers will check first, but…

She will have to find a well, she thinks.

It’s good to have some sort of goal in mind. A destination.

She doesn’t allow herself to think that she doesn’t have any real destination. That way lies despair, and madness.

She’d had one, originally, and that thought stings now. She would have gone north, to Caingorn, and begged sanctuary at a temple there.

Denesle, where her father is Viscount, is in central Redania, admittedly far from the border, but it is still only a few hundred miles from Denesle to Caingorn. Even less distance—only two hundred and twelve miles—from her father’s lands to that part of Redania so recently conquered by the White Wolf, and therefore beyond the jurisdiction of either her father or King Vizimir.

Two hundred and twelve miles, and a person on foot could make it thirty miles in a day at a push. Livi was certainly not used to walking such distances, but she was desperate. Two hundred and twelve miles. It would have taken her a week. She could have run.

But that was when she thought she would be married off to Duke Velen.

It had been a slim chance, only, that a Temple to Melitele in Caingorn would have granted her request for sanctuary, even with the goddess’s protection supposedly being open to all, but…Velen is King Vizimir’s uncle. Nowhere in Redania would have sheltered her, nor any of their allies.

But Caingorn? Caingorn now belongs to the White Wolf, that savage barbarian with his army of inhuman Witchers who has conquered most of the north, including a good two-thirds of Redania. A religious order based in Caingorn would have no reason to bow to pressure from the Redanian king, not when the two countries were practically enemies, and the White Wolf proven so definitively superior in might.

There had been a chance.

Now there was none. For not only had her father not betrothed her to Duke Velen—and to think she had once thought that that was the worst of all possible fates, to be married to a man who had killed all three of his previous wives in a manner so gruesome that no one will speak of it to her—but he had instead offered her up to be taken as tribute to the White Wolf, in hopes that she might appease his desires.

From all the rumors and pitying glances sent her way, Velen was a horrible man and would have been an even worse husband. From all those same rumors and glances, the White Wolf would be worse.

He is not human. The rumors all agree on that. The White Wolf, they say, is more—or less—than a man, somehow crossbred with the giant wolves of the mountains, ferocious and vicious and unpredictable. He has an unfathomable temper, capricious and cruel: he is apt to raze a city to the ground on the merest whim—as he did a mere few years ago to Ghelibol, upon no provocation.

The White Wolf is immortal and unkillable, still as young and hale today as he was sixteen years ago, when he suddenly appeared from nowhere, a monster at the head of an army of monsters, and started his unprovoked conquest of the north by beheading the king of Kaedwen.

The White Wolf, alone, is the match for twenty of Redania’s finest knights, or even a hundred. Strong enough to cleave a horse in twain, faster to strike than a viper, with cat-slitted gold eyes that can see into your very soul if you are unfortunate enough to catch his gaze. 

Duke Velen, for all his monstrosity, is a man. An old man at that, with at least some of the frailties of age, and the possibility remained that she could have been spared by something as mundane as his natural death in the course of time. He is powerful, yes, but has no magic of his own nor any unnatural abilities. His desires are known to be horrific and sadistic, but they are known.

The White Wolf has not aged or weakened since before Livi was even born. His temper is swift and violent and completely unpredictable, his powers and desires completely unknown.

And, the most damning comparison of all: she may have been able to find shelter from Duke Velen in the White Wolf’s lands. She will not find sanctuary from the White Wolf himself.

And so, she is running to nowhere, for there is nowhere to run.

No, she tells herself firmly. You are running south.

It is two thousand three hundred miles to Lyria, across the entirety of Aedirn, before she reaches somewhere not directly in the White Wolf’s control or allied to him, and even that is no guarantee of safety.

Her thighs chafe against each other with each lurching stride forward. She can taste blood in her every ragged inhale of the cold, evening air.

She keeps moving.

It grows dark.

She comes across a farmhouse. It looms, a slightly darker shadow in the shadowy night, no candles burning so late.

It has a well.

She collapses to her knees and fumbles for the rope. Her arms are shaking, and her fingers don’t seem to want to obey her orders to close, too numb from the cold.

All she can hear are her jagged gasps and her heartbeat in her ears. She forces her hands around the rope, pulls.

It takes a long time, so long, and too much effort, but slowly, slowly a bucket appears over the rim of the well. She sloshes half of it over herself in her desperation to drink, but finally, there’s water.

She gulps it down straight from the bucket, undignified and uncaring of the sight she must be, if there were anyone here to see her. And then she takes a moment to just pant and sag against the well.

She fills the bucket again, and brings it up, sipping more slowly this time. She still has a few stale pieces of bread that she’d hidden in her pockets over the weeks she’d spent in the company of the soldiers who were to “escort” her to the White Wolf. The apples, the only other food she’d managed to stash away, are long gone now.

She dips a handful of bread in the ice-cold water to soften it, then gratefully swallows the soggy mess. It is disgusting. She is so hungry that it is the best thing she has ever tasted.

She needs to re-think her plan. She has no idea how far she’s walked, but…if a traveller afoot can make thirty miles in an eight-hour day over clear and level roads, and she has certainly been going for well over eight hours each day—at least eighteen, she thinks, or more likely twenty—although she must also subtract all the time she’s spent ducking off the road to hide from any passing traveller, plus account for the fact that she is of very small stature and unused to traveling, and somewhat starving, and these roads are a bit hilly, being as they are in the foothills of the Mahakam mountains, then…she has absolutely no idea how far she has gone since she escaped her escort in the middle of the night four days ago.

At least a hundred miles, she thinks. Probably not more than two hundred.

That means there’s still well over two thousand miles left to Lyria, and she’s not even sure Lyria will be safe.

She’s not going to make it.

She needs a better plan.

Perhaps…perhaps she could disguise herself as a peasant, and find employment somehow. She has no idea how to go about doing so, but it must be better to live as a peasant than to die a horrible death at the hands of the White Wolf. She is certainly dirty and ragged enough that no one’s first thought upon seeing her would be “noble lady.” She could ask at people’s houses if they had any work that needed doing, mending or, or…washing dishes, or laundry. She has never actually washed dishes or done laundry, but she knows the theory, and  scrubbing can’t be that hard. And she is actually quite skilled at mending.

The idea may be a conjured fancy borne of listening to too many ballads and plays, and she is sure the realities of it will be much harsher than her romantic imaginings, but it is the only thing she can possibly think of.

But first she needs to get farther away from where she ran from the soldiers.

Resolved, she finishes her bread and refills her stolen water-skin. It was the only thing she took from their camp—she left behind all the fine clothes and jewels, the perfumes and furs, the lovely palfrey with its beautiful riding gear, all that King Vizimir had bestowed upon her in place of a dowry. All of it not actually hers at all, but to be given in tribute to the warlord, just as she herself was.

She’s wearing the only items of clothing she has anymore that are actually hers, which is thankfully the practical, if plain, riding habit and cloak she had donned the morning her father had informed her that they would be surveying the closer lands of their estate, and had instead handed her off to the royal soldiers with an admonition to do her duty to crown, country, and family, and to please the warlord for Redania.

Her dress and underclothes, and especially her socks, are filthy, stiff, and deeply uncomfortable after almost a month of travel with no change, for of course no one had thought to pack clothes that were not also tribute, or at least to make some of the tributary clothes practical enough to hold up to long travel.

It was clear that everyone involved had simply seen her as another item to be carted off to the warlord, and had not considered that she was also a person who would have needs upon the journey. For Melitele’s sake, she’d had to beg kerchiefs from the soldiers when her monthly courses came! It had been the most mortifying experience of her life, and deeply humiliating.

The stained kerchiefs, washed as best as she could in river water, are still in her pockets. She supposes she technically stole those too, in addition to the water skin. But she doubts the soldiers will want them back, and she had left absolutely everything else behind.

She has some faint hope that if the guards find it too troublesome to recapture her, that, out of a desire to save their own skins, they will simply deliver all those fine and expensive goods they still have as if they were the entirety of the tribute, and the White Wolf will never know she was meant to be tribute as well. Although that would leave the question of why King Vizimir thought the White Wolf would like ladies’ dresses…

If she is truly lucky, the White Wolf will accept that tribute, and the soldiers will not tell King Vizimir that she was not delivered, afeared of his reaction to their failure to contain her.

If so, it is possible that no broader hunt will be sent after her at all. It’s not as if there is any open communication between the two kingdoms, and it’s well known at court that it has proven impossible to place spies within the White Wolf’s keep, so no one will know that she’s missing to look.

But she has no way of knowing whether that will be the case, or if the soldiers are still searching for her, or where they are searching for her, or how long and far the search will extend.

Perhaps…her head spins with all the unknown variables. She’ll figure out the details of her new plan in the morning, after she’s caught a few hours of sleep.

But not here. Here is too exposed.

So she forces herself up and keeps walking.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Livi wakes up to the wet lick of a tongue and a dog snuffling in her face.

“What…?” She winces against the brilliant coldness of the mid-morning. She’s overslept. She is outside, curled under the meager shelter of a tree. She doesn’t know where she is.

The dog barks.

Livi’s blood turns to ice.

“No,” she whispers, bolting upright. She tucks the dog’s head into her skirts, pets his head. “Shh, boy,” she says. “Shh.”

It does no good. The dog barks again, then pulls back from her and howls, and now she can hear more dogs baying in the not-so-distance.

She tries to lurch to her feet and immediately topples over with a muffled scream. Her muscles have all stiffened with sleep and are sending waves of agony through her body, but it is her feet that truly belay any effort to stand. It feels as if they have been flayed, though she knows this is not the case.

And so it is that she is on her knees, holding desperately onto the scruff of one excited hound as another one butts up besides her, when a pack of guards encircle her on horseback.

A sharp whistle from a man she does not recognize    calls the dogs back to him, and she immediately misses their warmth. She is sure she makes a pitiful sight, filthy as she must be, kneeling in the dirt.  The horses are so much taller than her, and the men riding them sit taller still. She eyes their hooves warily, well aware that if any one of them clops her head, she could easily die from it. Perhaps she should…

She can’t make herself move. She doesn’t actually want to die.

She looks to Captain Siert, the leader of her escort.

“Please,” she begs.

He looks uncomfortable, but not—not merciful.

None of the men surrounding her look merciful. Some look downright gleeful at having recaptured her, and some of them…she recognizes that look, from how Duke Velen used to look at her when he would ask her for a dance in the full knowledge that she could not refuse, and he would hold her hard enough to bruise and grab in all the wrong places.

“You’ll be riding pillion from now on, my lady,” says Captain Siert.

She watches in numb horror as he dismounts and pays the huntsman while another one of the guards binds her hands in silk rope. It’s tighter now than it had been before. Livi thinks she should be fighting, should be kicking and screaming and trying to run, should be crying if she can’t manage any of that—she’s already so thoroughly disgraced herself that she can hardly make it worse by throwing a fit—but…she’s so tired.

She’s so tired, and there’s no point to fighting any more, and she’s just…numb.

She doesn’t fight when she’s lifted up to be seated behind another one of the guards, and they start tracing back her steps as if they never mattered, faster on horseback than she could ever be on foot, on their way to the White Wolf once more.

She sits behind the guardsman, hands bound, and she doesn’t do anything.

Oliwia’s feet are still bleeding two weeks later when they make it to Wolvenburg and they start their grim ascent up the mountain to the fortress looming above. She is almost certain that some of the burst blisters have become infected, although there has been nothing she could do except wrap her feet in bandages and keep them as dry as she could, which, given the travel and the fact that her riding boots had been utterly ruined by her flight, was not very dry.

Not that it matters: she is tied wrist and ankle to the saddle of the dainty palfrey assigned to bear her here, and so she could not run—or, indeed, stand—even if her feet could bear the weight.

Her head is swimming and she is chills all over, and she does not know if it is terror or fever.

She supposes that if she dies of blood poisoning, she will not have to bear the warlord’s attentions long. It is perhaps something to hope for.

This is the first time since her recapture that she has been allowed to ride on her own, even if the horse is on a lead rather than risk giving her the reins.

She is, ridiculously, grateful for the privilege of a saddle of her own. None of the guards’ saddles were configured for riding aside, nor even had proper pillions, and so her legs are aching and bruised and blistered as a result of sitting upon their saddles in a way they were never designed to be sat upon. Each step of the palfrey, no matter how smooth her ambling gait, sends waves of agony up through her battered thighs and rear, but it is mildly better now that she has a proper seat. Not to mention that the guards are no longer so violatingly close, squeezing her body tightly against their own rigid armor.

It was never technically improper, but she could feel their enjoyment in forcing her closer than such men would ever normally be allowed.

At least now she is riding, blissfully alone in the saddle. And it’s a proper side-saddle, so she can hook her leading leg around the horn and actually balance properly, and not feel as if she is going to fall off any minute if she doesn’t submit to their unwanted holds.

She is decked out in all the finery of Redania’s tribute: a silken gown more adult than anything she has ever worn before, both in its cut and in the expense of its detailed embroidery, dyed in a rich blue hue; sapphires in her ears and on her fingers; diamond-and-sapphire pins in her hair; lapis-and-gold paneled bracelets on her wrists, and a necklace at her throat to match; amber and myrrh as perfume, the bottles in her saddlebags along with the rest of the tribute; and, thankfully, a thick, fur-lined cloak which provides her only defense from the mountainous chill that whips at her exposed skin and burrows down into the metal of all the jewelry she is encased in. It is a far richer ensemble than she could have otherwise ever hoped to wear, even as a viscount’s daughter who had unfortunately caught the eye of the king’s uncle.

It is beautiful.

She hates it.

She hates it, but she had donned it without protest, and done her own hair, for she has no lady’s maid here in the wilderness, even as escort, which by all rights she should.

It must be that no one had seen the use of a chaperone, when they all knew she was being sent to the warlord to be despoiled, not even married, and she couldn’t—she had thought of it, in the measly five minutes it had taken her father to inform her of her fate and remand her into the custody of these royal soldiers, but she couldn’t make herself ask for some woman to accompany her, not when that woman would by all likelihoods share her same fate, without even whatever dubious shields of Livi’s station remain. If such shields even exist, when her father and her king and her country have made it clear they do not care what dishonor befalls her as long as it appease the White Wolf and his savage horde of warriors.

And that is a thought that has kept her up many a night, for although Duke Velen would have been horrible, he was but one man, and without even the paper fiction of a marriage, the warlord will have no reason to limit—to limit his men, who are said not to even be entirely men at all, but part-monster, with all the desires and…anatomy to match their beastly halves.

And Livi is terrified.

But she had donned the gifted finery, and done her hair as fine and gleaming as she could make it with minimal tools, and rouged her cheeks and lips—because of course whoever had packed had remembered that—all in the hopes that, that if she could make herself particularly pleasing to the warlord, that he would not want to—to share.

She is…she knows she is pretty. Beautiful, bird-like, delicate. Still ripe with the flush of youth, not quite full-grown, and naturally both small and slim. Those were, after all, the qualities which had most attracted Duke Velen to her. And she is exotic, too, with all her grandmother’s rich, dark skin; the high curve of her cheekbones; and the thick mane of her sleek, black hair. Not to mention the startling hue of her bright green eyes, framed as they are by thick, dark lashes. Perhaps she will be even more exotic in the warlord’s keep; she does not know if there are any Zerrikanian Witchers, or those of any of the other darker-skinned peoples.

So yes, Oliwia is beautiful. Tempting, hopefully, even if she does not feel it. Even if it makes her feel sick to think of the warlord—to think of any man—desiring her in that way.

But her desirability is the only thing she has left to trade on, and so trade on it she will.

She knows there is a high chance her pitiful plan will backfire, and instead entice his men, which is the last thing she wants, but…there is no hope for escape anymore. Not from that oh-so-imposing keep, injured as she is, all the way down this perilous mountain trail. She does not have the skills for it. And so she must throw herself onto the mercy of the one man left who has the power to protect her, and who might be persuaded to see the value in doing so.

If there is one thing she knows about powerful men, it is that they are possessive of that which they see as theirs.

It is a truth of the world she has had to invoke since her recapture, most especially during one horrid incident where—well. Her nightmares of being…passed around the warlord’s army, and her fear of their more monstrous natures and physical attributes, had both sprung entirely from that incident, for before then she had had no idea that such things were even options to fear.

She has learned many things about the lusts of both Witchers and men in the fortnight since her recapture.

Before her flight, she could have at least expected some moderate measure of privacy when using the latrine, or sleeping—it is how she escaped, undoing her bound hands with her teeth while she was supposed to be asleep, and crawling out from under the back of her tent in the dark of the night.

Her flight had put end to even those privileges, and with their loss came looks, and the too-tight grips pressing her into their bodies, and—

And.

That first night after her recapture, she had awoken to the completely foreign feeling of a hand snaking around her waist in the dark, and hot, moist breath and the scratch of stubble tickling at the nape of her neck, and she had screamed, and, and he, he—

He had laughed.

He had laughed, low and mocking. And his arm had squeezed around her tighter. “Aw, don’t be like that, my lady,” he had said, and it was clear that her title meant nothing to him—and why should it, when all the powers backing it up had made it clear that it meant nothing to them?

“You owe us a few nights of comfort after giving us the runaround so long,” he had said. “Made us ride through the nights, you did, without sleep or succor, and it were our own pay we had to use to hire the dogs, and maybe your noble ladyship don’t care about such common things as money, but your little runabout was damn expensive. But that’s alright, there’s other things you can do to make it up—”

“Grol. What’s going on here?” That was Captain Siert with a lantern, and Livi near fainted from relief. The other guards stumbled in after him, four more looming shadows crowded in the small tent, no doubt summoned by her scream.

She’d had to listen to Grol’s whole deranged rant over again, and his arm was still viselike around her, the both of them lying on the ground, and she didn’t dare speak for fear of making it worse.

Captain Siert's face might as well have been a mystery, illuminated only by the barest flickers of lantern light from below. Livi could much better make out through the murkiness that his hand not holding the lantern gripped tight the hilt of his sword. “You honorless piece of shit,” he spat, and Livi distantly noted her own absurd shock that such vulgarity was spoken in her presence. “You would dare—”

“And why not?" challenged one of the men, and Livi’s stomach swooped in dread.

It wasn’t Grol who spoke. She thought it might be Klemens, who was second-in-command. She couldn’t see any of their faces. “It’s not like anyone will notice in a few days once she’s been loosened up on a few Witcher’s cocks.” She could hear the smirk in the man’s voice even if it was too dark to see it, and two of the other guards standing over her chuckled.

Livi was fairly certain she understood what he was implying, even if she had never heard such—such crude terms for it, and her stomach dropped out from under her at the realization that of course, of course, she had been sent to slake the desires of not just the warlord but also his army of Witchers, oh gods above, how would that even work, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—

Captain Siert didn’t say anything, and Livi didn’t understand why until suddenly she did: two of the other guards had chuckled. So that was at least four on Grol and Klemens’ side, and only two—if that—on Captain Siert’s. On hers.

“It’s a dangerous journey, Cap’n.” probably-Klemens ambled over to Siert and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “And it’s been a stressful few days. It could’ve been all of us swinging from the rope for what that little bint’s put us through.”

There were rumbles of agreement from all around. Livi couldn’t tear her eyes away from Captain Siert’s shadowy face. His grip on his sword was white-knuckled, but he’d made no move to draw it. He may as well have been carved of stone.

She could feel her heartbeat in her stomach, where Grol’s arm was still wrapped around her like an immovable iron band.

“We’d be doing her a favor, even,” said Grol. His moist breath and spittle flicked against the back of her neck with each horrible, lecherous word. “A girl’s first time should be with a human, not one of those monstrous beasts.”

“Heard them wolf Witchers got knots like actual wolves, and the cat ones got barbed spines all down their shafts.” That remark came from another of the guards behind her, and Livi didn’t even know what that meant, but it sounded horrible, and it also sounded like he was agreeing with Grol.

And she definitely didn’t want—whatever horrible monster things the Witchers were, but that would be a problem for future Livi, and this was a problem for now, and Captain Siert still hadn’t moved, and she had no chaperone, and—her father would never find out about this, if they were to force her, because who would tell him? The guards themselves? The Witchers? She could hardly expect to be able to write home about her despoilment, and even if she could, what would it do? King Vizimir and her father had both made it very clear in sending her to the wolves that her virtue was not a priority—that, in fact, the ruination of her virtue was both the expected and optimal outcome. And besides, any such letter would not reach back to Redania until well after she had already been taken and, and…taken by the White Wolf, and his men, and most likely also killed, and would anyways do her absolutely no good right now.

And so Livi had appealed to the only possible power these men might respect, or at least fear, for certainly she had no power of her own, nor any other to call on.

“I will tell the White Wolf,” she said. Her voice shook, and was barely above a whisper. Tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t tell if anyone had heard her.

She forced herself to swallow, and spoke again, summoning every ounce of noble deportment and elocution she could muster from the ground. “If you force me, I will tell the White Wolf. I am tribute to him. How do you think he will react if he finds out you have stolen my—f-first time from him? Do you think he will show you mercy?”

Silence met her question.

“I’m not—I’m not risking the White Wolf coming after me, nor his Witchers.” That was Peet, the youngest of her guards. He was a quiet boy about Livi’s own age, she thought, fifteen or sixteen. It was the first time she’d heard him make any noise tonight. “An’ if you lot do anything to make him come after us…”

“Lad’s got a good point,” said Captain Siert. Livi felt oddly betrayed that he’d given credit to Peet for her idea. Even if that should be negligible on her list of concerns right now.

“Everyone back to bed,” Siert ordered. “There will be no impropriety. Janek, you’re on watch. Everyone else, sleep. I’ll watch the lady.”

And miraculously, they obeyed. They grumbled, but they obeyed.

Grol’s hand snaked out from under her waist, and soon everyone had left the tent except her and the captain.

Slowly, Livi pushed herself up to sitting. She hadn’t dared—that entire time, she’d been lying on the ground, with a man—a vile, disgusting, evil man at that—pressed up against her, so horribly vulnerable and intimate, while five more men loomed over her, and even if his hand had not strayed from her waist, even if everyone remained fully clothed, even if nothing had actually happened, she was still shaking.

Now Captain Siert crouched down as she sat up, the two of them about as far apart as it was possible to be in the small tent.

Livi tugged the bedroll and blanket up to cover as much of herself as she could, and hugged her knees to her chest. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, although she had no idea what she was actually thanking him for. He hadn’t—he hadn’t done anything. Her voice was hoarse.

The captain didn’t respond at first. Then, finally, “I apologize, my lady, for the inexcusable behavior of my men.”

Livi nodded, once, but didn’t say anything. 

She curled into herself, and swallowed her tears, and watched the lantern burn itself out into nothing.

In the morning, the captain pulled her, wrists still bound, into his own saddle, and they all continued on as if nothing had happened.

After a few hours, they cycled which guard she rode double with so as not to tire the horses. And so she rode double with Klemens, who had so casually said “why not?” to the idea of all these men raping her; and she rode with whichever of the men had made those horrible crude comments about, about Witcher anatomy—and she still wasn’t sure which one that had even been, which was somehow even worse than knowing; and the one who laughed and hadn’t said anything; and, of course, Grol, who was by far the worst of them all—if only for the way the feel of his moist, putrid breath on her neck brought her right back to lying on the dank ground, in the darkness, alone and surrounded and afraid.

 And no one said anything about what had happened.

She would almost believe that it hadn’t happened—that it had all been just a terrible nightmare, brought on by her fears of what was to come—except that the captain only let himself or Peet guard her during the night for the rest of the journey.

And Peet. Peet had, during one of her newly-humiliating and fear-inducing breaks to relieve herself in the woods, turned his back—the only of her guards to still do so—and said, almost too quiet to hear, “‘M sorry, m’lady.”

“Pardon?” she’d asked.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said again. “About last night. I should’ve—I didn’t say anything, and I should’ve, earlier. ’S not right, what all them were saying, what they were threatening to do, and I knew it, and I should’ve done something, I just—I froze, an’ I couldn’t—I didn’t…I mean, I’m sorry, that’s all. Me ma raised me better’n that.”

Oliwią took a breath, rising from her crouch. “You were the only one who said anything, Peet. I thank you for that.”

He flushed and winced. “’S not enough, though. If they—if they try again, I’ll—I’ll try…” He trailed off. They both knew that there wasn’t much he could do, younger and scrawnier and much less experienced than all the other men that made up her escort, one against many.

“Thank you,” she said, with a sad, scared smile for the only modicum of kindness that had been offered her in many weeks, knowing that she could not rely upon it.

“Sorry,” he said again, and that was the last it was spoken of.

By some miracle, or perhaps by Captain Siert’s tired and watchful eye, or—most likely—by the omnipresent threat of the White Wolf, no one had tried anything nearly so overt in the time since.

And now they have finally reached the keep of the White Wolf. Kaer Morhen.

It is…well, it’s exactly the image that Livi’s nightmares have conjured, dark and imposing and utterly inescapable.  The keep is carved into the mountain itself, stark and unadorned; the walls are hewn from rough stone, dotted across with arrow-slits and iron-barred windows much too small for even a cat to slip through. Jagged merlons and jutting turrets cut up from the curtain wall to loom over the landscape.

Captain Siert, reluctance tight in every line of his body, goes to knock upon the huge iron gates.

Oliwią draws herself up to sit as elegantly as she can upon her beautiful mare while they wait for the answer, bound as she still is and her entire bottom half pulsing in agony.

She hopes desperately that she is not bleeding enough to stain the gown or her slippers through her layers of undergarments. Such would not make a good impression on the warlord at all, though she knows better than to think it could be possible that she’s not bleeding at all. At least it is cold enough, even in the summer, to numb her slightly.

She pushes the pain off her face with practiced effort, and does her best to look placid. Pliant. Alluring.

She doesn’t know how to look alluring. Docile and obedient will have to do. Graceful. Dutiful. Willing.

She wills herself into being all those things, tucks her terror and her pain tight away into the recesses of her mind. She shrugs her cloak open, wiggling a bit to do it without the use of her hands, even if it exposes her to the cruel, whipping wind, in order to best show off the finery of the tribute, and of—of herself. She imagines the cold seeping its numbness into her bones, dulling the fear. Maybe it even works.

Her heart is still beating loudly in her throat, blood rushing in her ears. She forces her breaths to be even and slow, her seat loose and relaxed in the saddle, despite the agony jolting up her legs and into her very core. The last thing she needs is to spook her own horse.

The wait is interminable.

Finally, a small door built into the larger gate creaks open, and a single man steps through.

No, not a man—a Witcher. Oliwia can’t see anything from this distance that would mark him as not human, but the twin swords strapped to his back and silver medallion hung round his neck mark his status clearly.

He is huge. Tall, broad, and heavily-muscled. His studded leather armor is well-worn, and the swords and knives strapped all about his body have clearly seen much use. His boots make no sound upon the stone as he slowly stalks up to their party with all the grace of a predator.

As he draws nearer, Livi can make out his features in more detail. His broad, flat face is weathered and might as well have been hewn from the same stone as the mountain keep for all the mercy or emotion it shows. A deep, jagged scar made of many clawed lines runs down the entire right side of his face, from his temple, across his eye, and all the way down to his lightly stubbled jaw, twisting his lips into a permanent grimace. His eyes are shadowed beneath heavy brows, but they almost glow, like amber lanterns in the cold mountain air. True to the stories, his pupils are slitted like a cat’s.

Captain Siert hastily backs away as the Witcher steps forward, and bows awkwardly. “Sir,” he says, and the address is careful. Livi knows—because she had asked, before her flight—that none of her guards know the proper form of address for a Witcher, nor what signs mark rank amongst their people. This man could be a simple gate guard, or he could be a high general in their army. He is, at the very least, thankfully not the warlord himself, for the White Wolf is said to have long hair as white as the mountain snow, and this man’s hair is a perfectly mundane dark brown cut short enough to just curl around his grizzled jaw.

If she had to, Livi would guess the man is closer to ‘gate guard’ than ‘general,’ based upon the plainness and wear of his armor and weapons, but she is glad that she is not the first to attempt an address.

“We have brought,” begins the captain, then has to swallow and try again. “We have brought a gift, from the lords of Redania, with their compliments to the White Wolf.”

The Witcher eyes Siert head to toe in a slow, assessing glance. Livi has no clue what he might be looking for, and his scarred face gives nothing away.

Then he turns that same glance to Livi.

Calm, she tells herself. Gracious. Desirable.

She sees his eyes snag on the horse’s ornate gold-embossed bridle, on the ropes at her wrists and ankles,  on the jewels, and on—on the low neckline of her bodice and the smooth expanse of skin above it.

Calm, gracious, desirable.

It is, strangely enough, on her face that the Witcher’s gaze lingers longest.

She manages to meet his unnatural eyes. Her heart is thudding wildly. She counts the seconds to force her breath into even and slow measures.

The man’s nose flares ever so slightly—in what, Livi doesn’t know. Anger? Disgust? Lust? His jaw twitches.

After a moment, he breaks her gaze to circle slowly around the horse. The guards all stand very, very still, and Livi can hear them breathing hard. She doesn’t dare turn to follow the Witcher’s assessment, and instead focuses on keeping her head high as he looks his fill.

The horse shifts her weight and whickers softly. Livi attempts to relax her tensed muscles, and pats the mare as gently and unobtrusively as she can with her bound hands. In the day’s only mercy, the cold and the constant rush of fear have practically numbed her to the agonies of her injuries that have haunted her these past many days, and it is easy enough to swallow the sounds of her discomfort.

Oliwią does not know the reason for this prolonged assessment, but she gets the definite sense that the Witcher is displeased with her. Of all her myriad fears, she had not thought to add a fear of the Witchers entirely rejecting her as tribute.

If she is refused…If she is refused, what will happen? She can hardly go home. And the soldiers will take her back down the mountain, and then…she does not think that Captain Siert’s sense of honor or Peet’s fear-ridden sympathy will be enough to save her a second time.

If she is refused—If she is refused, she will beg the Witcher to at least take the horse as consolation.

And as soon as she is no longer tied to the saddle, she will throw herself off the cliff a few bare yards to her right and hope she dies quickly.

She notes that the Witcher gives each of the soldiers the same intense study he gave to her and the horse. Captain Siert is standing rigid as a board. Peet is shaking in terror. Klemens is white, and Grol looks like he might wet himself in fear. She hopes, vindictively, that he does.

The Witcher completes his circuit, and is standing before their group once more.

“I see,” says the Witcher, finally. His voice is gravelly, and hard. Definitely displeased.

Livi swallows, and gathers her resolve. Her eyes dart the distance between herself and the cliff’s edge.

“And who’re you, then, lass?” His voice still rumbles, but is much softer in tone.

Livi blinks. She’s never been called ‘lass’ in her life, but there is no doubt he’s addressing her.

She draws in a shaky breath. “I am  Oliwia Cecylia Bartol, Baroness of Denesle.” She ought to say something about how she hopes to be pleasing to the warlord, but she can’t force the words through her lips. “Might I have the honor of your name as well, my lord Witcher?”

He huffs, his lips quirking up in the barest hint of a smile, and his cat-slitted eyes crinkle in amusement as he meets her gaze once again. “I am called Eskel, Oliwia Cecylia Bartol, Baroness of Denesle.”

Eskel. Livi knows that the warlord’s second-in-command, his most trusted general, shares that same name, but surely such a powerful man would not be on mere gate greeting duty?  The Witcher gave no title nor even a family name, which would imply that he doesn’t have one, and his accent is quite common, but the casual familiarity of his address, when her own noble rank is so evident by both her introduction and her finery, points to him being of higher status.

Despite his fearsome appearance and the mocking edge to his introduction, she does not think he is mocking her, precisely, nor that he intends his words to be cruel. It feels more as if he’s inviting her in on a joke, even if she’s not entirely sure of the punchline. And if she can get this Witcher to be friendly towards her, even if he isn’t that Eskel…

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lord Eskel.” She figures it is better to flatter by assuming a higher rank than he actually holds rather than insult him by assuming a lower. And…she takes a risk, hoping to all the gods that she has read him right. “I will admit that your name trips off the tongue much more easily than mine. Please, if we are to be using bare names,”—and the impropriety of that terrifies her, almost seeming like she is issuing an invitation to unwanted overfamiliarity, but surely it is best to model her own manners after his?—“call me Oliwia, or Livi.” She smiles, hoping it comes across as a friendly and conspiratorial expression rather than one which is queasy with terror.

Probably-Lord Eskel’s eyes spark, and he seems almost…impressed? “Livi, then,” he declares, and he takes her horse’s reins from Klemens. He starts leading her towards the gate, and whistles up a complicated little tune—a signal, most likely, for the gate creaks open to allow them entry.

The guards start to back away, and Lord Eskel stills. All friendliness drops from his countenance, and his voice goes as cold as ice. “Did I say you could leave?” he hisses.

The guards freeze. One of them whimpers. The palfrey prances in place beneath her.

“Do—does the White Wolf not accept the tribute?” Captain Siert quails beneath Lord Eskel’s inhuman gaze.

“I don’t know,” says the Witcher. There’s a slow and deliberate threat in his carefully even words. “I’m not the White Wolf. So while he’s deciding, you all stay here.”

Grol squeaks in terror at that pronouncement. Livi wants to feel some satisfaction in his fear, but her own swiftly mounting dread drains her of the ability to do so.

No one—no one—has seen the inside of the Wolf’s stronghold since he became warlord. By all reports, tribute is dropped before the gates and those who bore it there must then quickly depart, lest they invoke the Witchers’ ire by staying on their doorstep for longer than necessary.

Kaer Morhen is well-known to be impenetrable. To be invited into the keep, when no spy or assassin or even messenger has ever made it inside—or, if they had, had certainly not made it back out again—points to something being deeply wrong.

But none of them are so stupid as to disobey a Witcher, so they all follow Lord Eskel into the White Wolf’s den.

The door shuts behind them with a gentle thump, and so they are well and truly trapped when Lord Eskel turns back to face them and draws a knife.

Chapter Text

Livi can’t help it. She flinches and shrieks at the sight of the wickedly sharp bare metal blade glinting in Lord Eskel’s hand.

Or, it’s not quite a shriek because she hasn’t let her gracious, dutiful, obedient, friendly smile drop, and so it’s more of a high-pitched whimper stuck behind her teeth.

She’s vaguely aware of the guards also shouting and stumbling back in alarm around her.

“Peace, Livi,” says Lord Eskel. “I’ll not harm you. This is to cut the ropes.” He gestures at her wrists with the knife.

“Oh,” says Livi, feeling quite slow and silly. “Of course, my lord Witcher. Yes, of course. Thank you.”

She holds still as the Witcher comes closer. He is taller at the shoulder than her horse, and he easily reaches her wrists to cut through the ropes tying her there. His hands are gentle and calloused, and he is careful not to nick her skin. She can feel the weight and heat of his chest press against her calves, and it is intimidating, but for some reason much less terrifying than when the various guards would be so close over the past few weeks. Perhaps because he is freeing her, rather than restraining her?

He slices through the ropes at her ankles too, and lets them drop to the ground, then reaches up and picks Livi up and off the horse. She bites back another almost-shriek. His hands are huge enough to wrap entirely around her waist. Her heart is beating in her stomach.

She braces herself for her feet to hit the ground, and—

Oh. Oh no. That is quite a lot of pain. Perhaps she is not quite as numb as she thought.

Nor as healed.

Her ankles buckle and she can’t hold back this cry, and oh gods, she’s ruining everything, this isn’t at all proper deportment, and the Witchers are going to know she tried to run away from them, and she can’t imagine how great their displeasure will be at that fact.

She’s a bit surprised that her knees don’t hit the flagstones. Instead, she somehow finds herself being entirely supported by Lord Eskel, one of his arms cradling her back and the other behind her knees.

She realizes, to her deep embarrassment, that she is clutching desperately at one of the many straps adorning his leather armor. “My apologies, my lord Witcher,” she babbles. “My deepest apologies. It has been a long ride, and I find myself quite faint…”

Lord Eskel is frowning down at her. “Your feet are injured,” he says, and there’s something odd about the cadence that she can’t quite decipher.

“It’s nothing, my lord, truly. A few moments to catch my breath and I will be well able to—to serve at the White Wolf’s pleasure.” She is deeply dreading the moment her feet must touch the ground again, terrified to even see the White Wolf, let alone what must come—after, but she cannot run and so she must be pleasing to the warlord, and, and all his Witchers, and if he knows how, how willful and disobedient she is, he will certainly be wroth, both at her and at Redania for sending such a tribute, so she must hide away her injuries as much as she can, but so far she’s making a positively dreadful botch of a first impression.

She steels herself to stand and face her fate. She walked on her feet when they were less healed than this. She can do this. She has to do this.

But Lord Eskel does not release her. His countenance is…hard, and almost blank, but his eyes—those unnatural, flaming orange things—are furious.

Livi blanches. He knows, she thinks. He has realized her treachery in trying to run, and now she will see a Witcher’s rage.

“Lambert,” says Lord Eskel, still looking down at her, his voice a final, chilling sentence.

Livi blinks. She has no idea what that means.

“Yeah?” says a new voice, another man. Livi mostly manages to stifle her flinch. It’s another Witcher, this one a bit darker in coloring than Lord Eskel, with a sharp widows peak and scowling lines cut deep into his face. “The fuck is all this, then?”

“I need you to find somewhere to put these fine gentlemen.” His every word is carefully measured, and immeasurably incensed.

“Uh, sure? What’s going on, though, Esk?”

“Tribute,” bites out Lord Eskel. “From Redania.”

Livi is staying as small and as still and as silent as she can in his arms, hoping against hope she can sink into the background. It is a hope that is quickly dashed as another pair of those lamp-like orange eyes run over her.

“They’re sending people now?” asks the new Witcher—Lambert, she reminds herself. He also does not seem pleased about her arrival.

Livi quails in Lord Eskel’s arms. Will this be the reaction of all the Witchers? The White Wolf? To be so displeased with her before she has even done anything? How can she possibly avoid the brunt of their anger if its cause seems to be her mere existence here?

She doesn’t know what to do. She’d thought she would have—a bit of a chance to ingratiate herself, at least.

“Seems so,” Lord Eskel answers Witcher Lambert’s—Lord Lambert’s? she will need to figure out how to tell rank here, and quickly—query.

“Fuck me.”

“Mm-hm.”

Livi very sincerely hopes that that isn’t a plan they’re making for her. She is still very much not used to hearing such crudities, and the idea of doing…those things sickens her. It is getting very hard to think through all the blood and terror and spinning thoughts rushing through her ears.

And—oh, they’re moving. Or, Lord Eskel is moving, and she along with him, seeing as she doesn’t dare even try break his grip. The guards are left behind in the courtyard, along with the Witcher Lambert, and perhaps she should feel something about the fact that she is quickly whisked out of sight of the only people here she knows, but all she really feels is a dull sort of relief—muffled greatly by her many more immediate and overwhelming fears, but still most definitely relief— that she is no longer forced to be in their presence.

Lord Eskel snaps out a few orders to people they pass—sending someone to fetch grooms for the horses, another to get someone named Jan, another to inform the council that he’s been delayed.

From the orders and the deference he’s shown—most people immediately scramble out of the way of his urgent stride—Livi surmises that this Lord Eskel is indeed that Lord Eskel: the warlord’s own right-hand man. She does not know of any of his official titles, but her understanding is that the man who is now carrying her in his arms is the equivalent to a Grand Vizier or Prime Minister—not only is he of the highest possible rank outside of royalty, but he is also the man in practical charge of running the entirety of the White Wolf’s empire.

And he is very displeased.

He hasn’t hurt her yet, though. Even most of her guards left bruises when they’d manhandle her around, but Lord Eskel’s—Duke Eskel’s? Should she be calling him Your Grace?—grip has remained gentle, even as it is also firm.

Livi clings to that thought, that he hasn’t hurt her yet, as she also clings to the man himself, helpless to do anything else as he rapidly strides through a dizzying array of unadorned gray stone corridors and  several flights of stairs.

Despite the gentleness of his hold and the smoothness of his step, Lord Eskel’s arms do very much butt up against some of her bruises. To be fair, there isn’t really any patch of skin on the back of her legs that isn’t bruised or rubbed raw from the terrible process of riding double, side-saddle, for days upon days, on saddles built for only one person riding astride.

Livi is panting in pain by the time they arrive at an unmarked door. Lord Eskel has not even broken a sweat.

The Witcher opens the door by backing through it, and Livi hears a rustle of cloth before she can see the room’s inhabitant.

“Patient for you,” says Lord Eskel, and he sets her down upon a plain wooden table.

Livi gasps as the hard surface jars her battered rear.

“Sorry,” says Lord Eskel, with a wince.

“Please, my lord, the fault is all mine,” says Livi, the words almost automatic after having to deal with Duke Velen’s games for almost a year, ever since she had first arrived at court.

“It isn’t,” snaps Lord Eskel. He adds, darkly, “As far as I can tell, it’s everybody’s fault but yours.”

Livi doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say to that.

“Yes, my lord,” she finally settles on. That’s probably safe enough, right?

Or not. Lord Eskel grimaces at her words. “None of that ‘my lord’ business, Livi. Call me Eskel.”

“Yes, Lord Eskel,” she says.

He grimaces again. “We’ll work on it.”

“I apologize,” says Livi, paling as she realizes she has inadvertently immediately disobeyed a direct order from the Witcher. “I truly meant no discourtesy, my lo—Eskel.” She flushes and corrects herself again. “Eskel.”

“It’s fine,” he says, shifting a bit.

“Stop dithering about titles and whatnot and move your ridiculously large body out of the way,” interjects an amused female voice. “I need to be able to actually see my patient to treat her, you know.”

Lord—not Lord?—Eskel snaps to and shuffles to the side like a chastened child. “Sorry, Triss,” he mutters.

The woman clicks her tongue and swats him fondly. “Forgiven and forgotten. Now,”—she rests her hands on her hips and surveys Livi—“who have we here?”

“Triss, Livi. Livi, Triss.” Lord Eskel seems to think this suffices for introductions, and Livi is hardly going to contradict the man, not when she is sure she is already in his bad graces.

“Livi’s injured,” he adds. “Her feet can’t hold her, she’s bleeding, and the wounds are infected. Maybe more.”

She has no idea how he could possibly know that last bit. Perhaps she is feverish to the touch?

She doesn’t have too much time to think on it as she turns her attention to the person who’s just been introduced.

‘Triss’ is a strong-featured woman perhaps a decade or two older than Livi—somewhere in her late twenties or thirties—with curly auburn hair cascading down to her waist. Her dark brows furrow and her lips purse as she considers Oliwia with intelligent and discerning eyes. Her skin is beautifully clear and unblemished, except for a light dusting of freckles across her cheerfully round cheeks, and just dark enough in hue that it is likely she has some Zerrikanian heritage. Hers is much lighter than Livi’s own skin, of course, but perhaps Livi will not be as exotic a novelty as she feared among these northern barbarians.

Triss is wearing a well-made green woolen dress, more practical than showy, though there is some decorative embroidery around the hems. If this were Tretogor, Livi would have put her in the category of ‘high-ranking servant’ or perhaps ‘prosperous artisan’ by her clothes, but given that she could read no rank from Lo—Eskel’s garb, and by how familiarly Triss treats the high-ranking Witcher, Livi guesses that the woman is much more important than appearances would first belie.

A lady, then, probably, or whatever the equivalent is here among Witcher barbarians. She simply does not know their rankings or forms of address, though L—Eskel was obviously displeased by the…formality? of being given the proper deference of his station. So perhaps she should go against all her training and instincts, and under-address this Triss?

Well, she can hardly make things much worse. She swallows against her nerves. “A pleasure to meet you, Mistress.”

A kind smile breaks out across the older woman’s face, and she nods in acknowledgment. “You as well—Livi, was it?”

Livi blushes. “Yes,” she says. “For Oliwia. Um,”—she darts a glance at Eskel, though he hadn’t seemed displeased at her original introduction despite his seeming dislike of titles, and he makes no move to stop her, so she completes her introduction as she had before. “Oliwia Cecylia Bartol, Baroness of Denesle.”

“At your service, Mistress,” she hastens to add, in case that was coming across as too…arrogant?…by Witcher standards. She knows, and Lor—Eskel knows, that she is here to serve the White Wolf insofar as however he desires, and if the White Wolf’s right hand has taken her to Mistress Triss, then it follows that he expects her to do as the woman wants.

If Mistress Triss is to be treating her injuries—which seems to be the case, and is a definite kindness, if ill-timed—then there will be no hiding that she tried to run. She cannot let them think that she is disobedient, or doesn’t know her place, on top of that. She shudders to think of how Witchers would correct that deficiency in her.

“She’s been sent by Redania,” Eskel adds to her introduction, every word bitten off in his ire. “As tribute.”

Triss steps back. “Ah,” she says, looking Livi over. “I see.”

Livi flushes and lowers her eyes. She tries to project dutiful subservience with every fiber of her being.

“Right,” Triss declares, clapping her hands. “You”—she points to Eskel—“out.”

Livi startles.

Eskel, shockingly, takes no offense at being ordered around by the woman. “You sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” snaps Triss. “Now, out. You’re scaring her.”

“I—” He glances at Livi, who has absolutely no idea what to do and has frozen on the table. “Of course,” he says. “Sorry, Livi. I’ll just be…” He trails off awkwardly as he lets himself out and shuts the door behind him.

Livi stares at Triss in utter shock.

Triss merely smiles back, unperturbed. “First things first,” she says. “I’m a healer. If Eskel says you’re so badly injured, then you are, so it’s no use hiding or downplaying it. That being said, whatever happens in this room stays between us unless you want it otherwise. I won’t tell a soul—not Eskel, not the White Wolf, not anyone. Now, may I scan you with my magic to get a better sense of what’s wrong?”

Livi gasps to see the soft, leaf-green light now encircling Triss’s hands. She’s a sorceress?

“Of—of course, my lady sorceress,” she says.   

Triss smiles softly, and Livi feels a peculiar tingle run through her body as the sorceress’s magic sinks into her. “I know court habits are hard to break,” she says, “but truly, please do call me Triss. And Eskel, Eskel. The same with everyone else—Witchers aren’t overmuch for formality; it makes them uncomfortable. So it’s bare names and the same basic courtesy for everyone, from the servants all the way on up to Geralt.”

That sounds utterly unbelievable, but…perhaps it does fit with her limited observations so far. She nods, cautiously. If true, this would be very helpful advice. And perhaps signals that Mistress Triss could be a willing ally?

Dare she even hope so? She does not think Mistress Triss is the type to lie in order to get Livi to sabotage herself, but then again she has only just met the woman. Her kindly mask could hide any number of cruel tendencies.

Livi resolves to watch how others interact, and mimic it. In the meantime, she will…avoid direct address as much as possible.

“Geralt?” she asks. It would certainly be helpful to know what rank this man holds, that only those above him are given title. She wonders a bit that Eskel is presumably below this Geralt, but perhaps she was wrong to identify her Witcher as that Eskel, or perhaps the rumors in Redania were wrong as to his positioning.

“The White Wolf,” Triss answers casually, now gathering some vials and jars from a shelf to the side of the room.

Livi makes a strangled sort of sound. “The warlord?”

“No, the other White Wolf.”

She sees Livi’s terrified bafflement and sighs. “I apologize, this is probably not the right time to be joking. Yes, Geralt is the warlord. If you can’t bring yourself to actually use his name, it would be fine to call him ‘my lord.’ Or just ‘White Wolf’ or ‘Wolf.’ But I promise you won’t offend anyone, including Geralt, by omitting such things.”

“I…see,” says Livi, although she very much does not see.

“You’ll get there,” says Triss. She hands a small glass vial to Livi. “Drink.”

Livi pops off the glass stopper and examines it. The syrupy liquid is mostly clear, but flecked through with little flakes of gold. It smells quite strongly of alcohol and smoke. She’s never seen any medicine quite like it.

“What is it?” she asks.

Triss, thankfully, does not take offense at the question, nor at the fact that Livi did not immediately follow the order given. “Alchemical reagent,” she answers.

Livi blinks.

Triss continues, “Part of what makes healing magic so difficult is that most humans are not built to have large amount of chaos—magic—running through them. In simplified terms, this gives me an…anchor, or a pathway, inside of you, so that I can use my magic to directly burn the infection out of you, without either having to overextend myself protecting your body from my magic, or leave you writhing in pain and weak as a newborn kitten from having that much magic coursing unbanked through you.”

“Oh,” says Livi. “Thank you.” She drinks. The liquid burns going down, but isn’t otherwise unpleasant.

“Good,” says Triss. “Now, let me hold your hands again for the magic. It may hurt a bit, or feel weird, but it shouldn’t be unbearable.”

Livi nods nervously and lets Triss take her hands. The woman closes her eyes, focusing, and the magic once more wells up around her.

Livi watches in unabashed wonder as that green magic sinks into her again, filling her with that strange buzzing sensation, except more. Livi feels like her very bones are vibrating, hot and tingly waves coursing through her stomach, her lungs, her feet, so much so that she can’t feel anything else, just that overwhelming warmth, almost too hot, and growing hotter, until it’s become pain, and pain, and—

It’s over.

Livi gasps and sways, but Triss’s hands are already there to hold her steady. “Easy, there,” says the sorceress, rubbing circles onto Livi’s back. “Easy. The dizziness should clear quickly; if you’re not feeling back to normal in a few minutes, let me know.”

Livi nods, too overwhelmed to speak.

“You might feel a bit weaker than normal for the next few days, but it shouldn’t be debilitating.”

“All right,” says Livi. She blinks rapidly as her head begins to clear.

“Did you get rid of the pain as well?” she asks. She hasn’t felt this free in…well, weeks. She hadn’t realized quite how much it had built up, the aching, and the throbbing, and the constant headache amplifying all her woes.

And now it is gone. She thinks she might no longer be dizzy, but instead reeling from the sheer lightness of not being in pain.

Triss chuckles sadly. “No, I’m afraid not—only the pain that came directly from the infection, which is now gone.”

“Oh,” says Livi. She smiles at Triss. “That was amazing.” She feels like she is in a wonder-tale. To be healed by a sorceress…

That is for the likes of kings and great heroes, not for the insignificant throw-away daughter of an insignificant lord.

“I’m glad you feel that way. It didn’t hurt?”

“Well,” says Livi, “it did a bit, but mostly it was just warm, and tingly, and I feel ever so much better now.” Still a bit sore, and achy, and she can feel the sting of the still-open sores on her feet now that she’s come down a bit, but the all-encompassing pain that has haunted her existence for so long is gone. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. Now—” Triss holds out another glass vial, this one tinted yellow. “This one is for the pain. No magic in it whatsoever, and it should still leave you clear-headed. It will take a few minutes to set in, though.”

Livi nods and takes it. “Why—” She cuts herself off, not wanting to pester the healer.

But Triss just says, “Ask.”

“Why did you need an anchor—the, um, alchemical reagent—for the healing, but not the scan that you did earlier?”

The sorceress looks delighted for some reason. “Excellent question,” she says. “Do you mind if I answer as I tend to your injuries? I know some of them are in quite intimate areas, and it can be easier to have something to distract yourself.”

Livi flushes. “I don’t—It’s really just my feet,” she says. “Anything else is just—chafing, from so much riding.”

Triss nods, slowly. “Your feet are certainly the worst of it,” she says. “If you’d prefer to leave treatment at only them for now, that’s your decision.”

“I—yes, please,” Livi says.

“Alright. I’ll leave you with some bruise balm you can use to treat yourself, and some ointments for the bleeding and the rashes.”

Livi flushes at the not-so-subtle rebuke that Triss knows she had been downplaying the extent of her riding injuries.

“Now—magic!” Triss gathers some salves and bandages and kneels at her feet, easing off her slippers, which Livi is dismayed to see are stained with blood, though only on the inside.

“It’s a bit complicated to explain, but it comes down to different functions of how the magic interacts with your body.” The woman quickly cuts through her existing bandages and lets them fall to the floor, ignoring the horrific smell that emanates from the various oozing fluids that have soaked the cloth.

 “Basically, the scan is akin to…hmm, say, looking at someone. You, in seeing someone, don’t actually affect them on the material plane. Whereas burning out the infection requires making a physical change to the nature of your body in reality.” As she speaks, she cleans Livi’s wounds with a cloth soaked in water.

Livi winces at the sensation and works on keeping her feet still. She tries to focus on Triss’s explanation rather than the not very pleasant sensation of cloth against her wounds.

 “Not only does it require a lot more power, but…oh, think of it as the scan is like a gentle wave breaking over you, whereas direct healing is more akin to trying to swallow a wave in a storm.” She starts to smooth a pungent salve over Livi’s soles. “This may sting,” she warns.

It does, but after her earlier agonies, it is easy enough to ignore.

“That’s fascinating,” says Livi. And it is. A real live sorceress! Just willing to answer her questions! Explaining such grand doings as magic to her.

Triss’s eyes crinkle. She wipes her hands on her apron and picks up another jar, some sort of balm that is also promptly smeared liberally across Livi’s feet. This one doesn’t sting at all.

“It’s also why I don’t want to use any more magic on you for at least a day or two,” Triss explains, “even diluted in a potion or a salve which would normally be quite safe for you to take.”

“Lucky for you,”—Triss wiggles the balm-jar at Livi as re-caps its lid—“I have a very small stash of completely magic-free medicines and balms, though I may need to whip up some more in the coming days.”

“Why do you have them at all?” Livi asks as Triss re-bandages her feet in fresh, clean cloth. “If they’re normally safe for a human to take, and Witchers don’t need such considerations…?”

She would normally guess that magic-less things are produced more cheaply and easily, or are more able to be made in bulk, and therefore the magic-ful ones are saved only for the highest ranking or dire occasions, but Triss is speaking as if most of Kaer Morhen's medicinal stores are infused with magic, which must be such a massive expense that it boggles the mind.

“It’s my own personal store, actually,” Triss admits with a wry grin as she cleans her hands in a nearby basin. “I’m allergic to potions, or ingesting any magic—even my own—prepared in that way.”

Livi gapes at her. She had no idea such a thing was even possible. “Thank you,” she stutters out, “for sharing your personal stores with me. That is—a kindness I did not dare hope to ask for, and one that I cannot repay—”

“Livi.” Triss holds up a hand to stop her babbling, and Livi goes silent. Triss sighs. “Oliwia,” she says, solemn as she wasn’t even a moment before. “My lady.”

Livi can’t quite get her voice to work again, so she bobs a nervous nod at the sorceress to show she’s listening.

Triss sits down next to her, on the table, and takes her hands again. “May we have a frank and serious conversation?”

“Yes, my lady,” Livi whispers.

“It’s still just Triss. I only thought that you might find some comfort in the trappings of language to which you are best accustomed.”

Livi stares at their clasped hands. Triss’s are still a bit cool from the water she’d used to clean them. “I—thank you, Triss, for your kind consideration. But I would not have you change your custom on my account, and—if we are to have a frank conversation, then let it be—let it be frank and honest in its trappings as well as its content. If it please you.”

She darts a look at the older woman out of the corner of her eye, terrified of her own daring, but…she needs to know what the actual rules of this place are, where the lines of acceptability and insolence and disobedience are drawn, and what—what the consequences will be if she crosses them.

Better to find out now, with Triss, who may at least be kind in her correction, than to be blindsided later. Livi has rather had enough of being blindsided lately, of the rules of society being completely disregarded and the possibilities for pain and torment to her person so dramatically expanded.

Triss’s face holds nothing but kindness in it. “Very well,” she says. “Which do you prefer, Oliwia or Livi?”

“Livi,” she says. Oliwia makes her feel as if she’s in trouble, or—caught.

“Livi,” Triss acknowledges. “Before I came to Kaer Morhen, I was the chief court mage for Foltest of Temeria. So, I have some idea of how courtly games and noble scheming work, though I am admittedly a bit out of date with the goings-on.”

Livi feels her eyes widen. The chief mage for the king of Temeria—no wonder the woman had no trouble ordering Eskel around.

Moreover, Foltest has not been king of Temeria for some twenty-six years. Livi revises her estimate of Triss’s age upwards by several decades; the woman could have hardly been the king’s chief mage whilst still in her swaddling clothes.

Triss pauses and draws her hands back to herself, considering her words. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and perhaps make some…educated guesses. I would greatly appreciate it if you could answer me honestly, and correct me if I surmise wrongly. Can you do that?”

Livi nods, still not looking directly at her. “Yes.”

“Thank you, Livi. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

“Alright.” She still can’t force her voice above a hoarse whisper.

“How old are you?” Triss asks.

“Fifteen,” says Livi. “I’ll be sixteen next month.”

“Have you made your debut at court?”

“Yes, almost a year ago.”

“Unmarried?”

She nods.

“Are you still under the aegis of your father?”

“Yes,” Livi says. “Or—I was, until…I don’t know if I am anymore. I think likely I am under no one’s aegis, for—well.” She has somehow grabbed a fistful of her silken skirt without realizing it, and is mangling the fabric in her fist.

“Perhaps,” she ventures, “if the warlord deigns to accept, I would be under his aegis, but, um, I don’t know if...well, Lo—Eskel said he may not accept me as tribute, so I think, most likely, I’m not under any aegis.”

It sounds so terrible when she is forced to lay it out plain like that, and underlines just how hopeless her situation is. She has absolutely no protection nor recourse she may take, regardless of the offense done to her, to the point where she is throwing herself upon the mercy of the first kind stranger she has met, who just so happens to be an enemy sorceress.

“Because your father and your king sent you here, as tribute, without any of the customary protections you are owed—no marriage contract, nor wardship provisions, nor any informal understandings, nor even so much as a missive.”

Livi eyes are stinging, and she has surely crushed her skirt beyond repair. But it is true, as much as it hurts, and so she makes herself nod.

“From all that I know, I can only conclude that they expected you to serve as a bedwarmer.”

“I—yes,” she admits in a tremulous whisper. Her vision blurs, but she refuses to let the tears fall down. “Or—or whatsoever else the warlord desires.”

Triss swallows. “And you did not volunteer, nor come willingly.”

“I will!” Livi’s voice cracks in her panic. “I will be, I swear, wi-willing, and—and dutiful, and obedient, and, and, pleasing, and—”

“Hush.” Triss is rubbing circles on her back again. “It is a monstrous thing that they have done to you, Livi,” she says, “but let me make one thing crystal clear: the warlord will not hurt you, and he will not rape you.”

“I know,” says Livi, desperate to make Triss understand that she will not fight. “It is his right, and I’ll be—I’ll be willing.”

“It is not his right,” Triss insists in a furious hiss. “Not his, nor anyone’s. And it could not be true willingness under such duress. But let me speak plainer: Geralt will not—will never—have sex with you.”

“Oh,” says Livi. She feels strangely blank and disconnected as this last hope is snuffed out. “Then—he will give me to his men? Or does he take other pleasures?”

She does not know what such pleasures might be, but if he is a monster as the rumors say, then it stands to reason that he may take pleasure in monstrous things, beyond human cruelties.

She hears Triss take a measured breath beside her. “No,” says Triss. “He will not give you to his men. No one here will have sex with you unless the day comes when you full-heartedly wish it. No one here will strike you, nor kick you, nor touch you in any way meant to cause pain. You are safe in this keep Livi, I swear it on my life.”

And oh, but that is a pretty lie. “You can’t promise that,” she says. “No one can promise that.”

“The White Wolf can.”

“But he won’t. You said—he won’t take me.” Everything is very far away.

“He will not fuck you,” says Triss. “He will protect you.”

Livi smiles, a sad, disbelieving thing. “Why?” she asks.

“Because you need it, and you deserve it. Because it is the right thing to do.”

Livi laughs. “Like in a story,” she says, soft and dreamlike. “Or a play. The good and righteous king who rescues the fair maiden with no thought of reward. I like those plays.”

“You do?”

“Mm-hm,” she hums. “I don’t live in one.”

“None of us do,” says Triss. “But this is reality.”

“Yes,” says Livi, “it is.” She is strangely calm, even as her voice grows hard. “And the reality is that I have nothing to offer the warlord in exchange for his protection besides myself. No lands, no money, no dowry. No connections nor name, for my father has given me up of his own accord. Not even the clothes upon my back, for those are tribute too, and belong to the White Wolf. As do I!”

“The White Wolf,” says Triss, “does not countenance slavery. You belong to no one but yourself.”

“Another pretty lie. You tell them so well.” She can hardly believe she is speaking so, but it seems she has moved beyond fear, beyond panic, into some calm and reckless state. “But the truth is I have nothing to offer but my virtue, and if the White Wolf will not take it, then I will not have even that, for his presumed possession of it is the only reason I have been able to keep it safe!”

She is panting, and the words ring in the room.

Triss takes another maddeningly slow breath. “People have tried, I take it? To force you?”

“I…after I—they said I owed them, for causing so much trouble, and no—no one would care anyway, which is true, and that—that it w-wouldn’t matter, not, not after what—what the W-Witchers would do, b-be-because I’d be so—so ruined.”

“Oh, child.”

“But, but—I made them stop,” says Oliwia. She looks up at Triss. “I made them stop.”

“You brave, brave girl.”

“I said—I said, the warlord be wroth, if they took—if they took what was his. So I must be, you see, because—because if I don’t belong to the Wolf, then, then…”

“Then you are vulnerable to all and sundry.”

Livi nods, and swallows. Tries to gain some control over her breathing. “Please,” she says. She is not above begging. “How can I get him to accept me?”

“I do not know,” says Triss, slowly, “how to convince you that Geralt’s protection will have no price. So instead, what I will say is this: You, Oliwia Cecylia, without anything to your name, are worth so much more than what’s between your legs. If we must find some service for you to feel safe, then find it we shall.”

“How?” asks Livi, desperate and daring not to hope. “What could I possibly offer the White Wolf that could be worth such a boon?”

“Oh, more than you might think. I bet you have any number of skills he will find useful. Hmm…how’s your accounting?”

“Uh,” Livi blinks, startled, “quite good, actually. I have helped keep my father’s books and manage his estate these last two years.”

“Wonderful!” says Triss. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the particulars of Denesle’s affairs, but managing an estate—I assume your duties included some measure of logistics, budgeting, tackling inter-county and interpersonal disputes, having a familiarity with politics and the law, drafting official correspondence, being able to read and write contracts, arranging security, organizing responses to emergencies…?”

“I…yes, to all,” says Livi. She feels a bit discombobulated by the rapid change in subject, but this is something she knows quite well.

“Denesle is chiefly farmland,” she explains. Triss obviously has a firm grasp on the general duties involved in running an estate, but only Livi can provide the specifics of her experience—and prove that she actually has the administrative skills Triss seems to think the warlord would value.

“Grain, for the most part,” she continues, “though we have a few well-regarded cider orchards as well, and several small towns. So I’m quite familiar with agricultural logistics, and the international markets for both food and drink.”

What else, besides that which Triss already mentioned? “Our lands are situated on a tributary to the Duppa, so I am well-versed most especially in water-law and the laws of tradeways. We are vassals of the de Ruyters, so I have some experience with balancing the interests of our overlords—and those the neighboring counties and viscounties—with those of our subjects, and the political maneuvering and niceties involved therein. I also play the harpsichord and the rebec; I’m quite good in the stillroom; and my needlework is very fair, though I admit I am better at plain mending than embroidery.”

Those last several skills are not to do directly with managing an estate, but are the type of traits a potential suitor would ask after, and so Livi adds them.

”Perfect!” Triss declares. “I can think of several positions in Kaer Morhen that would suit you well, though I will need to talk with Eskel and Geralt about the specifics before making any promises.”

Livi licks her lips. She will shatter if she dares to hope. “And if they do not agree?”

“They will.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but you cannot speak for the warlord, nor know his mind.”

“No,” Triss allows, “but I can tell you that Geralt beheaded the king of Kaedwen for visiting the kinds of cruelties upon his subjects that you fear he will now do to you. Witchers fight monsters. It’s what they do. Geralt has simply expanded the definition to include monstrous men.”

She has never heard such a justification for the warlord’s assassination of the Kaedweni king. She is still reeling a bit over Triss calling him ‘Geralt.’ “I…yes, my lady,” she says.

“You don’t believe me.”

“It is not that I misbelieve you, Lady Triss,” she says, carefully, “it is only that…condemning an action in another is no guarantee that one will avoid it in oneself, nor that one would go out of one’s way to protect a stranger—from a recently-enemy kingdom, no less—when there is no advantage to be gained in doing so.”

“And so you cannot believe it will be real, especially from a lord you have never met and of whom I am sure you have heard monstrous report.”

“I do not doubt your word of his justness and fairness.” She does doubt—how could she not?—but she cannot say that.

Admittedly, she has been treated quite well since her arrival in the keep, first by Eskel, even despite his ire, and then by Triss, which potentially speaks very well of the standards expected by their overlord, but she has only been here for a very short time, and it could easily be that she has lucked upon some kind individuals.

To her knowledge, the warlord has yet to even be informed of her presence. His orders upon learning of her—especially if he is similarly displeased as Eskel—could easily belay any more such kindnesses.

Instead of voicing such thoughts, she says, “I simply hesitate to presume upon the White Wolf’s goodwill, when it seems I am quite unwanted and I am very unfamiliar with the manners and mores of his court. I—My life is at his sufferance; how dare I ask for more?”

And what would he do to her if Triss is wrong, or lying?

“I’ll do the asking,” says Triss. “And if for some gods-forsaken reason  he says no—which he won’t—but if he does, or if he or anyone tries to force you, you can be under my protection instead. No, you know what—actually, you’re under my protection anyway. From now until you no longer wish it. Done. How does that sound?”

Livi wants to hope. She wants to hope so badly.

She says, “I could hardly ask you to position yourself so at odds with your liege lord.”

Triss snorts. “If it comes to the point where I would have to, then he’s no longer the lord I swore my allegiance to. At that point, it would be my duty to stand against him, and I’d have most of the keep with me.”

Livi is trembling. She had thought the woman quite kind and sensible, but is Triss insane? “You speak treason,” she whispers.

“And I’ll speak it to the White Wolf’s face, too.”

“You cannot!” Insane or no, she does not want the kind sorceress to die.

“Livi,” says Triss, and the air crackles with power. “I am Triss Merigold, the Fourteenth Killed at Sodden Hill, known as Merigold the Fearless. I am not scared of the White Wolf. If he or anyone would prove the kind of monster to provoke my wrath, then they will most certainly fear me. And you are under my protection, I swear it on Melitele and upon my magic. From now until my dying day. You are safe.”

Livi bursts into tears.

Chapter Text

Livi isn’t able to stop the broken, gulping sobs coming out of her for several long minutes. The entire time, Triss just holds her and mutters reassurances, stroking her hair as she does.

The sorceress shows no signs of impatience, even as Livi fails to regain control of herself again and again.

Finally, though, her sobs peter down to a standstill, and Livi is left wrung-out in their wake.

Triss, kindly, doesn’t mention her extended breakdown, and instead offers once more to tend to the remainder of her wounds.

This time, Livi accepts.

It should be awkward, having another touch such intimate areas, but Livi is too worn out to feel even embarrassment as Triss rubs a soothing salve into the blisters and bruises that litter her thighs.

At one point, Triss has her lay on her stomach on the table as the older woman carefully lifts sections of her skirts to tend to the saddle-sores on her rear.

Livi stares at the shelves in front of her, the way the torch-light glints upon glass vials, and can’t seem to conjure up much of any kind of thought, or even emotion.

There’s a knock at the door.

Livi, to her own muted surprise, doesn’t flinch, or even tense. She’s just too…emptied, to feel even fear.

“A moment!” Triss calls, and there’s a muffled response from the hall.

Triss finishes her bandaging and sits Livi back up on the table, tugging Livi’s skirts all around to ensure they hang properly down her legs. “I’ll just see who it is at the door, then, shall I?” she asks.

It takes Livi several seconds to realize that the sorceress is asking her permission.

“Of course,” she murmurs. She goes back to staring at the shelves.

Instead of inviting this new person in, as Livi had expected, Triss sticks her own head out of the door and has the conversation out in the hall.

It’s muffled, but Livi can still clearly make out Triss’s exasperated cluck. “Don’t tell me you lot got into a contest jumping off the ramparts and one of you got yourselves hurt again.”

“I would never,” says Triss’s visitor. It is a woman’s voice, low and drawling and slightly raspy, and Livi can hear a syrupy-smug smile in every word.  “And quite frankly, I am offended you would think so lowly of me. I’m not even injured.”

Livi swallows. The idea of a person, let alone a woman, jumping off the ramparts of this keep—most of which must overlook the sheer cliff-face of the mountain—should be shocking, but as it is, Livi has simply run out of the ability to be shocked today. Yes, why not have women jumping off the ramparts for a bit of sport? Perfectly reasonable pastime, that.

“You’re not, no, but Guxart’s had to fish three cats off the walls this month alone,” says Triss, which is a sentence that makes less than no sense.

The visitor, however, obviously gleans some meaning from it, because she snorts. “Yeah, but I’m not going to get hurt doing it. I have some skill.”

“Mm-hm. That’s what you all say, and then you show up with all sorts of sprains and strains and broken bones.”

“Well, not seriously hurt,” hedges the woman.

Livi wonders what could possibly be considered serious harm if broken bones do not count as such.

She wonders how that skewed scale may apply to Triss’s promise that she would fall to no harm.

“All right, all right,” says Triss. “If no one’s injured, why are you here?”

“Uh,” says the woman, sounding unsure for the first time in the conversation. “Eskel sent me? Apparently I’m supposed to report to you to be a bodyguard-guide-type-person for some lady—who’s apparently your patient?—but only if you think it’s a good idea. Oh, and also he wanted me to tell you that the Wolf and everyone will be in the council room, and you and your patient are invited to discuss things whenever, but there’s no rush.”

“I see,” says Triss.

“You do?” says the visitor. “Good, because honestly I have no idea what’s happening. I mean, Eskel said that there isn’t any threat or danger to worry about, but that she does need a bodyguard, which is just…I don’t really understand.”

“I do,” says Triss. “Give me a moment.” And then she closes the door right in the woman’s face.

Livi blinks at the abruptness of it.

“Did you follow that all, Livi, dear?” Triss asks.

“I…think so,” says Livi.

“Would you have any objections to Dragonfly acting as a bodyguard of sorts for you, at least for a few days? She’s as fine a warrior as any in the Wolf’s forces, and I’ll vouch for her honor, though her manners—all of our manners, for that matter—may be a good deal rougher than those to which you’re accustomed.”

“I…” says Livi. She tries to grasp at any possible complications either her acceptance or refusal may cause, and realizes that she is simply so foreign to this court that she cannot even weigh her options properly. Would it be an insult to Eskel refuse this woman warrior he has personally chosen and sent? Would it be an insult to accept—as it would imply she felt unsafe in the very seat of the White Wolf’s power, and she would be discounting Eskel’s judgement that there was no threat, besides?

She simply does not know. She does not even know how to politely phrase either her acceptance or refusal, as even her most basic manners seem utterly alien to this keep.

Then of course there is the consideration of whether Livi actually wants a bodyguard, but that is so far down her list of concerns in making this choice that it may as well not matter.

…Though it may also be the only consideration she can accurately judge.

Does she want a bodyguard? Her first instinct is to recoil at the very thought, especially after spending so many weeks in abject fear of the guards that dogged her every movement and moment.

But. She does not particularly fancy being alone in a keep full of Witchers, where anyone could just—grab her. She cannot impose upon Triss indefinitely. A bodyguard chosen by her new overlord’s man would obviously not protect her from him, but she might just protect her from everyone else. And surely a woman would not—could a woman even…?

She does not know.

Triss has vouched for this woman, at least, and seems to generally approve of the idea, although she has not spoken definitively either in favor or against.

“If you think it wise,” Livi finally says, “I have no objection.”

“I do think it wise,” says Triss, tapping her lips. “Not the least of which reason is because I would quite like you to stay off those feet, and I am hardly up to carrying to you up and down Kaer Morhen's many staircases myself.”

Livi blushes. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Nonsense.” Triss waves her off. “Shall I invite her in, then?”

Livi takes a deep breath. “Yes, thank you.” Despite her best efforts, it comes out more as a squeak than a statement.

Triss opens the door and ushers in the newcomer, and Livi gasps.

It is a gasp through her nose, and somewhat muffled, but a gasp nonetheless.

For Livi hadn’t quite put together the dots when Triss said that the woman was ‘as fine a warrior as any in the Wolf’s forces’ that her new bodyguard would be a Witcher.

She hadn’t realized that a woman could even be a Witcher.

But a Witcher she undoubtedly is, black-armored and doubled-sworded and medallioned, and striking.

She is tall—not just tall for a woman, but tall for a person, though not quite as tall as Eskel had been. Oliwia, admittedly, is very short, but the difference in height between them is still quite notable.

The Witcher strolls into the room with all the predatory grace of lion. She is not disheveled in appearance precisely, but seems to have recently engaged in some considerable exertion—her shirt ties are loosened enough to expose the sharp line of her collarbone, and many wisps of tawny hair have escaped to frizz about her tight braid, although there is no sign of strain in her breath, nor flush in her face, nor sheen of sweat on her brow.

Like Eskel, this Witcher bears scars upon her face, though hers are not nearly as prominent and faded with age besides: one thin line runs down her cheek, and another rakes through her opposite eyebrow. Oliwia can’t imagine how much those must have hurt, but—for a Witcher, maybe it didn’t hurt at all.

The woman hooks her thumbs into her belt and rocks back on her heels, surveying Livi with bronze, cat-slitted eyes as she is surveyed in turn.

“Dragonfly,” Triss introduces, “this is the Lady Oliwia Cecylia Bartol, who is…a charge under my protection. Livi, may I present to you Dragonfly, a Witcher of the School of the Cats.”

Livi blinks and her head spins with all the particularities and implications of Triss’s introductions. Especially since Livi now knows that Triss is familiar with courtly etiquette and is therefore aware what certain nuances of her speech may convey.

First, the sorceress completely omitted from Livi’s honorifics any reference to Denesle, or any specific rank or title. It seems utterly improper and leaves Livi feeling terribly exposed, but is probably correct even by the strictest of court standards: Livi almost certainly no longer has claim to Denesle and the titles entailed therein, even if she is technically neither disowned nor married into another house.

But Triss has still acknowledged Oliwia’s nobility with the simple title of “Lady.” Some of the nastier nobles at court would have omitted that courtesy, as a severe insult that would call Oliwia’s disgrace and utter powerlessness to attention.

The kindness of its inclusion, when Triss would be well within her rights to omit it entirely—especially when the mores of Kaer Morhen apparently tend to omit titles as a matter of course—makes her eyes sting.

But most shockingly, in those two sentences, Triss had implied—not once, not twice, but at least thrice—that Livi outranks Dragonfly.

First, she had introduced Dragonfly to Oliwia, rather than the other way around. It had been brief, but the sorceress gave Dragonfly’s name to Oliwia before allowing Dragonfly to hear Oliwia’s own. Of course, such orderings of names were easy to misspeak in the moment, and were frequently flubbed—both intentionally and unintentionally and to great scandal and insult—even at court. Oliwia could hardly expect to depend upon such a nuance from a woman decades removed from the intricacies of courtly etiquette.

But then Triss had formally listed Oliwia’s titles before giving Dragonfly’s, thereby deeming them the more important. And then, Triss neatly removed any trace of doubt as to whether this was intentional when she explicitly presented Dragonfly to Livi—and did not do the same in reverse. 

Now, perhaps Dragonfly is quite low-ranking, as Witchers go. Livi has no idea what ‘of the School of the Cat’ means, but Triss did not list a military rank or position for Dragonfly besides ‘Witcher,’ which would imply she is not an officer in the White Wolf’s army, but instead more akin to a foot soldier—or perhaps closer to an unlanded knight, as Livi does not dare imagine a Witcher as common.

Or perhaps Triss chose that order of introductions because Dragonfly had been assigned by a power higher than the both of them to ‘serve’ Livi in some capacity. But…even still.

For Livi to ostensibly rank above any Witcher, even if it is only a polite fiction on Triss’s part, is already more than Livi had dared hope for.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Witcher,” Oliwia murmurs on trained reflex.

“I’m not a lady,” says the Witcher, making a face. “You can just call me Dragonfly.”

“Let it be Livi, then,” says Livi. She has now, in the hour or so she has been in the keep, given more people in Kaer Morhen leave to call her by a nickname than she had over the course of ten months in court.

Only her closest of friends Sasha and Milena—that is, Alexander of Velen and Milena de Roggeven—had been so close in her confidences in Tretogor. Both were a few years older and significantly outranked her, but Milena was the third daughter of a duke—and therefore insignificant in her father’s eyes—and Sasha, of course, was Duke Velen’s grandson. Since Velen’s interest in Livi had been quite clear from almost the minute she had stepped foot in court, it was not deemed improper for her to get to know her presumed future step-grandson. Sasha, she had come to learn, was as kind as his grandfather was cruel.

She hopes she will be able to find such kindness in this court as well.

“Livi.” Dragonfly nods, and smiles tentatively at her.

Livi smiles back, and hopes this won’t be too terrible.

“Well!” Triss claps her hands. “No point in delaying. To the White Wolf?”

Livi swallows.

“To the White Wolf,” she agrees, heart in her throat.

Before she knows it, Livi is swept into Dragonfly’s arms and rapidly borne through the endless maze-like corridors of the keep.

She spends the journey marveling over the final bit of Triss’s introduction that had stood out to her.

Triss had declared Oliwią a ‘charge’ under Triss’s protection. Out loud. To a Witcher.

She had not truly thought Triss would intentionally break her oath of protection, but it is very different to swear something in private and to declaim it so openly and directly as Livi’s first and defining epithet.

Not, ‘This is the Lady Oliwia Cecylia Bartol, who is tribute from Redania.’

It is more than Triss merely wishing to mercifully skim over Livi’s unfortunate situation. There were any number of perfectly bland options the sorceress could have chosen, even omitting anything to do with tribute or Redania. ‘Who is recently arrived in Kaer Morhen,’ for example. ‘Whom Eskel mentioned to you,’ for another. ‘Who is currently my patient.’ Or simply omitting a descriptor altogether.

No, Triss chose that phrasing. It was a very intentional declaration, almost a dare.

And ‘charge’…the word defines and enshrines the nature of Triss’s protection. Although no one, besides Triss herself, has actually charged Triss with Oliwia’s safety, it feels correct.

She is not a ward, for she is not a child—she is old enough to be married, after all; old enough to be sent to the White Wolf—and Triss is certainly not fostering her. Nor is she an attendant or assistant or lady-in-waiting, for they have not formalized any such relationship, nor has Triss even suggested it. After all, as tribute, Livi cannot have any formalized relationship with anyone without leave of the White Wolf.

It had not escaped Livi that Triss, even in her boldness, had declared Livi a charge under Triss’s protection, rather than Triss’s charge. And in doing so cleverly acknowledged the supremacy of the warlord’s entitlement to Livi, without giving it any voice.

But not only that: in wording it as she has, Triss had heavily implied that Livi is a charge of the warlord’s court generally—which would effectively mean she is the warlord’s charge.

Which would not be such a terrible thing to be at all.

Charge, after all, was simply a polite term for ‘hostage,’ and charges tended to be treated quite well. They were honored guests of the court, or even members of their host’s own household.

Livi would much rather be a hostage than a tribute.

If, due to Triss’s—not quite manipulation, for no one manipulated a king, but—if due to Triss’s clever framing, the warlord were to accept her as a charge…that would be—that could be her salvation.

 If she were a charge, Livi would be entitled to all the protections generally provided by the White Wolf to members of his court. And to attack her, or dishonor her, would be to dishonor the warlord.

 Her good treatment, and her life, would be contingent, of course, upon Redania not displeasing the White Wolf. So perhaps she would only be shunting the problem down the road, especially as she has no illusions that King Vizimir would avoid or change any course of action out of concern for her.

But even so, the possibility—the hope—is tantalizing.

She prays that Triss will provide a similar introduction of her unto the warlord himself.

The three of them sweep through a dizzying array of plain, unmarked corridors. Oliwia, to her surprise, finds  being borne in Dragonfly’s arms to feel strangely…safe.

The woman must be exceedingly strong, for she shows no sign of strain at bearing Livi’s entire weight over and across multiple flights of stairs, and at quite a brisk pace—not a tremble, nor a tremor, nor even a sweat. But despite this obvious physical superiority, Livi does not feel the same threat from Dragonfly that she had from her previous guards, nor even that she had felt from Eskel—for while the other Witcher had been nothing but gentle to her, his barely-leashed anger and the promise of violence had been palpable in every step.

Dragonfly, by contrast, is steady at her back, utterly confident and calm. Her grip upon Livi is secure, but not tight. Not grabbing. She doesn’t clutch at Livi the way her old guards did, with a possessive sort of desperation and furtive entitlement. There is an assurance and an unconcern to her that Livi finds exceedingly comforting.

Too soon, they arrive at a grand hall, framed by two magnificent carved wooden doors. Like the rest of the keep, the hall is all bare stone, dark and uncompromising. Long tables stretch down its length, leading to a raised dais upon which rests what must be the head table, perpendicular to the rest.

Central to the table sits a cragged throne. A gleaming silver circle, embossed with the shape of a snarling wolf’s head, is embedded into the back of the throne, right where it would halo the head of a very tall man.

The throne, also, is empty.

Livi swallows.

Triss easily winds her way through the tables and behind the throne, Dragonfly and Livi at her heels, to a rather unimpressive door that had initially been hidden from view by the imposing mass of the throne.

Triss raps upon this smaller door, but doesn’t wait for a reply before entering.

“Ah, yes, good. You’re all here,” says Triss, as Dragonfly carries Livi across the threshold behind her.

Livi takes as much measure of the room as she can in a brief glance. It is a study, of the sort any nobleman might have, though rather larger than her father’s study. Still, it’s a familiar sort of environment, with maps and quills and ledgers and shelves full of papers and such things.

What is not so familiar is that it is filled to the brim with Witchers, all of them armed to the teeth and bristling with anger.

There is Eskel, whom she recognizes, and Lambert from the courtyard. Several others she could not possible hope to put names or ranks to, but there are four—no, three of them. All huge, war-scarred men. One is gray-haired and older looking, though still well-muscled and plenty imposing; one is nearly as dark in complexion as Livi, with a curtain of long hair hanging loose; and one is a bit leaner in build, wiry, with his hair scraped back into a bun and covered with a plain cloth wrap.

And then there is the warlord.

The White Wolf.

She had at first thought him another of the yet-unnamed Witchers, for his garb and his countenance is no different from the rest. He wears no crown, nor adornment. But his hair is bone-white and silken smooth, just as the stories say, and his presence…there is a weight to his person that commands all attention.

His own attention, thankfully, is mostly focused on Triss, who continues to make quite a loud entrance, but Livi doesn’t think for a second that the warlord had not noticed her as soon as she crossed the threshold.

There is also another woman in the room, black-haired and inhumanly gorgeous, dressed in finery almost a match to Livi’s own—both in its sheer extravagance, and in the audacity of its neckline. Her dress is purple to Livi’s blue, matching her striking violet eyes, and Livi is honestly quite shocked that someone even could create a dress that might well be more expensive than the one Livi is wearing, at least when it comes to the cost of dye. Especially since the woman is both taller and much more…gifted in certain physical attributes than Livi, meaning a good deal of extra yardage must have gone into crafting the dress.

The woman doesn’t even—as far as Livi knows at least—have any occasion to be wearing such an extravagant gown.

Her jewelry is less extensive than Livi’s—an amethyst pendant, set in what looks to be iron, a silver-colored bracelet mostly hidden beneath her sleeve, and topaz drops in her ears—so Livi’s overall garb is almost certainly the costlier of the two, given the gems and precious stones Livi is wearing count for the vast majority of the monetary value of the tribute.

Still, even discounting entirely the jewelry, between the two of them they are likely wearing an expense that would feed a hundred men for a year.

Unless this woman is also tribute from some other nation—exceedingly unlikely, given the confident aggression of her stance and her position of respect amongst all these Witchers—then she must be a sorceress. Or perhaps the warlord’s very favored lover. Or both.

Either way, not a woman to cross lightly. Or at all.

Livi hopes that the woman does not take her own presence, dressed as they are so similarly, to be a threat.

Livi twists in Dragonfly’s arms. “If you would set me down,” she whispers.

“Sure,” Dragonfly whispers back, as she gently sets Livi’s feet on the floor.

Instead of even attempting to stand, Livi uses her grip upon Dragonfly’s arm to lower herself the rest of the way down into a full kneel, facing the warlord.

Dragonfly, ridiculously, crouches down along with her. She looks confused. “Do you want a chair?” she asks.

Livi shakes her head, a tiny motion, hoping not to draw the full attention of the warlord quite yet.

“Are you sure? Because I can get you a chair, no problem.”

“I will kneel,” she whispers.

“Oh. Well, if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Livi hisses. “Thank you,” she adds, terse, trying to soften it.

“Uh, alright then,” says Dragonfly. She rocks back on her heels, but doesn’t rise back up, or move away from Livi.

“So,” Triss is saying, still very loudly, “Can I safely assume that Eskel has filled you all in on the whole situation?”

There’s a general rumbling of assent throughout the room. Livi lowers her gaze to the floor. The Witchers’ boots are all very black.

With a start, she realizes they must be dyed true ichor-black, along with the rest of the Witchers’ armor. No one knows quite what that dye is made of, but it is only the Witchers who provide it, and the pigment is worth ten times the price of gold by weight.

Perhaps she should have been comparing the cost of her garb with the Witchers, rather than the woman.

“Good,” Triss is saying. “This is Oliwia Cecylia Bartol, called Livi, and she was sent from Redania as tribute to the White Wolf. I’ve taken her under my protection, and Geralt, if you even think about having sex with her, I will cut your balls off.”

Livi’s entire being goes blank with horror. That was not—that was not at all what she was expecting Triss to say.

That was not subtle politicking, as would be suitable for the situation. That was not clever framing of the situation.

That was directly and publicly threatening the most powerful man on the continent.

That was open and crude treason, supposedly at Livi’s behest.

That was…there’s no way she can possibly salvage this. No way she can explain she had no idea or intention to support such a statement.

And she had thought Triss kind, and clever.

How stupidly naïve of her.

The world is narrowing around her.  Black boots moving across the shadowy black tunnel that has overtaken her vision. There is a commotion of some kind, but she can’t hear above the pounding pulse in her ears.

She can’t—she can’t…

She doesn’t know what to do.

The world is rushing in all about her.

“No,” someone is saying, near her ear. Their words go in and out of focus. “…don’t think I will…to protect her, and I didn’t really get why, but this is why, isn’t it? Because…obviously doesn’t know…So I’m staying, unless Livi wants me gone. No offense, Wolf.”

Livi blinks at Dragonfly, trying to make the woman’s words make sense.

There’s a considering hum from somewhere farther away.

“Livi, dear,” someone else says. “Can you hear me?”

She recognizes the voice. “…Triss?”

“Yes, there we go. There you are.” The sorceress is kneeling at her side. Someone is rubbing circles into her back. Not Triss, the angle is wrong. Who…? Oh, right. Dragonfly.

The Witcher gives her an awkward sort of smile when she sees Livi notice her. Livi tries to smile back. She doesn’t think she succeeds.

“Do you know where you are?” Triss asks.

Livi does, and she hates it. “You threatened the warlord’s own person,” she hisses at the older woman, instead of answering. She is a bit unsure as to how they are both still alive and not being dragged away to some dungeon. “To his face. In front of an audience. That is treason; men have been hanged for less.” Nobles aren’t generally hanged—they are beheaded, and usually not over mere words—but if a commoner said such a thing? She has no doubt they would be swinging by sundown.

“I am sorry,” says Triss, and she even sounds sincere. “Not for the sentiment, but I chose my words for Geralt without thinking of the effect they would have on you.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” Livi hisses.

“Don’t worry; it takes more than some words to piss off the Wolf,” says Dragonfly from behind her. Her voice is soft and steady in Livi’s ear. “To piss off any Witcher, really—we’re all used to being called all sorts of name-calling and threats and such.”

That can’t be right. Livi’s still finding it a bit difficult to breathe.

There’s the soft steps of black boots in front of her—one of the Witchers. He kneels down before her, and—

It’s the Warlord.

“My lord,” she begs. “Please. I didn’t—I didn’t mean, to, to, to offend. Or threaten. I am yours. Please, my lord. Any—anything you wish. Anything. Please. I am entirely yours. Plea—“

The warlord raises a hand for silence, and she cuts herself off, choking.

“Oliwia Bartol,” says the White Wolf. His voice is a soft and terrifying rumble. “I am not angry with you.”

His eyes are a searing, burning gold.

“Yes, my lord,” says Livi, because to disagree with a king is unthinkable.

 Even with the both of them knelt on the floor, he is still well over a head taller than she is.

Despite his words, he is eminently displeased, frowning as he studies her.

“I would not be angry with you,” he says, each word deliberately parsed out, “for something Triss said. And I am not angry with Triss for saying it. It is—hm.”

He falls silent for a long moment.

Livi hardly dares breathe. She can’t break away from his terrible, soul-searing gaze.

“It is…good,” the warlord finally says, “that my people would protect innocents, even against me.”

Livi has no idea how to respond to such a statement. It is—that is not how the world works.

But she is not being dragged away to some dungeon, nor beaten or stripped on the spot, so that’s some small comfort she had not dared hope for. She has no idea how what the White Wolf is saying could possibly be true, but perhaps…

She is so confused.

She thinks it might be safest not to say anything, for to agree with the White Wolf would be to support treason against him, but to disagree would be doubting the word of most dangerous man on the continent, of her new overlord and master.

The White Wolf must sense her confusion somehow, for he goes on to explain, “Witchers fight monsters. Killed the king of Kaedwen because he was a monster. The type of man who’d do the type of things I think you’re fearing from me.”

Each word is slow and heavy and deliberate coming out of the White Wolf’s mouth. “If I become that type monster, then it’d be any Witcher’s job to kill me.” His eyes dart to Triss. “Or sorceress,” he adds.

Triss smiles fondly at him.

“You do that kind of sick shit, Wolf,” says Dragonfly, “and Triss’ll have to get in line. Me’n my sisters will put you down right quick.”

The White Wolf weighs Dragonfly with his unnatural golden gaze. After a moment, he inclines his head, ever so slightly, in acknowledgement.

“I see,” says Livi. It is perhaps the hardest thing she has ever done, to look the White Wolf in the eyes and offer him not her body or her service or her obedience, but her tentative trust.

But, well. No one is being so much as reprimanded for all this threatened treason. The White Wolf’s eyes are unnatural and inhuman, but not cruel. And it does all align with what Triss was saying earlier, before Livi thought she lost her mind.

“Thank you, my lord, for explaining it to me,” says Livi. “And I apologize for…causing a scene, earlier.”

The White Wolf shrugs, unconcerned. He sits back on his heels and studies her.

Livi tries not to quail under his gaze.

If she is wrong, and the White Wolf and Triss and all his court are the type to play mind games, then the trap will close more painfully when it finally does close. But if the trap is there, she is already in too deep to avoid it. So what does it matter if it is more or less painful to her heart?

 And if they are the type to play such cruel mind games, they may go gentler on her for playing along. Velen, she always thought, received some sick kind of thrill whenever she was forced to smile and nod and pretend that she didn’t know what he was or why he wanted her, and his amusement at toying with her had perhaps left her safer for longer than she otherwise would have been.

Even so, her foolish heart is still daring to hope that this is real.

“Triss suggested that I might find some useful occupation in your service, my lord,” Livi says, heart in her throat, because she needs to know. “Even if I do not suit as tribute. In accounting, perhaps, or drafting contracts.”

“Yes,” says Triss. “I think it would be quite a fine idea, no? Livi here is trained in all manner of useful things—logistics and organization, courtly correspondence, legal writing, political maneuvering, trade and shipping customs, managing personnel.”

“Huh,” says the White Wolf. His face is unreadable.

“Or if none of that suits, she is of course welcome in my stillroom—I could always use an assistant—and I am told she sews a very fine seam, so I am sure Aniela would be happy to have another hand.”

“Hm.”

Triss huffs. “Use words, Geralt.”

There’s a soft laugh from over in the corner, and Livi jumps in her skin. She hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room, but—there is Eskel, lounging unobtrusively against the wall.

Livi quickly glances around the rest of the room, but the other Witchers and that terrifying lady are all still gone. Besides Eskel, it is only the White Wolf, Triss, and Dragonfly—and Livi herself—who remain, and all four of them are seated or crouched or kneeling on the middle of the floor, instead of in any number of the comfortable-looking chairs scattered across the room.

It is a bit ridiculous, really.

“I think our great and glorious White Wolf may have used up all his words with that little speech of his earlier,” says Eskel, grinning brightly.

“Oh, you may have a point,” laments Triss. “There will only be little hums for the rest of the day.”

The White Wolf glares at the both of them. “I can talk,” he says.

“Then do so,” says Triss. Her lips are pressed tight in a suppressed smile.

The White Wolf growls.

“Pretty sure that’s not talking,” Eskel points out. He still hasn’t moved from his place leaning against the far wall, his hands in his pockets, and it’s—nice, Livi admits, if only to herself, that he hasn’t moved closer in to crowd her.

Dragonfly is shaking with suppressed laughter besides her.

The White Wolf sighs and lets his head sag forward and rubs his forehead with his fingers in—in fond exasperation. Livi is very, very confused.

Whatever Livi expected of the White Wolf’s inner circle, it wasn’t people who teased the most dangerous warlord on the continent. And certainly she wasn’t expecting the White Wolf to let them. To, perhaps, even enjoy it.

“What do you want to do?” the White Wolf asks.

Livi blinks, as she realizes he is addressing her. “I would, of course, be honored to serve however you best desire, my lord”—the White Wolf frowns—“but if it is all the same to you, I would prefer to do something...useful, please.”

She would prefer to do something indispensable, so as to secure her tenuous position in this strange court. But she cannot say that out loud.

Triss has been managing without an assistant for however long she has been here, and in truth Livi is still wary about imposing upon the sorceress’s charity. She does not know who Aniela is—perhaps, from context, the keep’s head seamstress?—and while Livi would certainly prefer working as a common seamstress to serving as tribute, it would be servant’s work. She does not think she is above such work—certainly, only a few weeks ago she was planning to beg door-to-door for the privilege of doing it—but servants are replaceable. There are any number of women in the world who can sew a fine seam, and from Triss’s words, this Aniela already has a number of people working under her.

And so… “I am best at accounting, my lord,” Livi adds, “and all the tasks which fall under the management of an estate.”

It has the benefit of even being true, as well as what Triss had implied the White Wolf was in most need of.

The White Wolf nods, just once. “Eskel, get her set up somewhere, would you?” he orders. “Dragonfly…”

“I’m staying with Livi,” says Dragonfly. She’s smiling, but it’s not particularly friendly anymore. “Unless and until she no longer wants me there.” This last bit is mainly directed at Livi herself.

“I…admit I would be grateful for your presence, gracious Witcher,” Livi murmurs, once she realizes she’s actually supposed to respond. The woman has in just the past hour been unexpectedly fierce in Livi’s defense, even unto the White Wolf, and…her presence is already somewhat comforting.

Also, Livi still cannot walk, or even stand, by herself.

The White Wolf hums and nods before standing to go back to the enormous map laid out upon the table. “Triss,” he says, “a word?”

“Of course.” The sorceress rises from the floor to join him, and it takes Livi a moment to realize that’s all the dismissal they’re going to get.

It’s not until Dragonfly has scooped her up again and is following Eskel down a hall that she realizes that she has faced the White Wolf, and survived unscathed.

Chapter Text

“This’ll be your room,” Eskel says, and pushes open a wooden door. They’re high up into one of the keep’s many towers, and somehow Dragonfly still has not faltered under bearing Livi’s weight the entire way.

Livi swallows, and takes in the space. It is, to her shock, a well-appointed and private suite: sitting room and bedroom, both well-furnished but rather impersonal. There’s an empty bookshelf and a desk in the sitting room, and a comfortable-looking chair upon which Dragonfly deposits her.

“Thank you, my l—Thank you,” says Livi, nodding to each Eskel and Dragonfly in turn.

“I know it’s not ideal,” says Eskel, “all the stairs with your injuries. But Kaer Morton’s practically made of stairs—there’s nowhere to sleep that’s not up at least a flight or two. And this wing is more private. It’s guest rooms, mainly, and we don’t get a lot of guests.”

“Truly,” says Livi, “this is more than I could have possibly hoped for.”

Eskel grimaces. “Privy’s at the end of the hall; baths are—hm. I’ll send up some trainees with a bath.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely,” says Livi, feeling terribly guilty at the thought of someone having to haul water up so many stairs.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Eskel. “Trainees always need to burn off some extra energy.”

“Thank you, then.”

Eskel nods. “What else…you bring any baggage with you?”

“I—there is the rest of the tribute,” says Livi, “it was on the horse.”

“Right,” says Eskel. “And your personal effects? Clothes?”

“Ah,” says Livi, blushing. “Um.”

“Did those shitstains not send you with any clothes?” Dragonfly asks incredulously. “What, did they just expect you to go naked all day?”

Yes.

Livi flushes with mortification. “There were other dresses, I think. With the tribute. Like this one. And my riding habit might have survived? I’m not entirely sure what happened to it—it was rather damaged. But if I might presume upon you for an advance on whatever cloth stipend my new position might provide, and for some needle and thread, I could fix it, and sew myself some new, uh, socks.”

Socks are better knit than sewn, but Livi does not know how to knit and she has no money with which to buy them made. She isn’t sure what kind of benefits her new position may provide—if indeed there will be any at all besides her life—but a cloth stipend is something even scullery maids are provided yearly, so surely it’s not too big of an ask?

The undergarments she is wearing, thank the gods, will be serviceable under daily clothes as well, although it is a bit ridiculous to have a silk chemise for daily wear.

“What the fuck,” says Dragonfly.

“We’ll provide you with clothes,” says Eskel from where he’s stationed himself across the room. “Including socks. And shoes. And any other basic necessities.”

Livi blushes even deeper. “Thank you,” she says. She blinks back against the overwhelmed tears pricking in her eyes.

“Of course,” says Eskel, his jaw clenched.

She needs to stop asking for things, but it is very hard when she does not have anything.

“I’ll have a meal brought up too—you must be exhausted, and the hall can be overwhelming at the best of times.”

“Thank you,” says Livi again, feeling very much as if she’s a parrot, stuck upon that one phrase. “You are very considerate.” This time, she catches the ‘my lord’ before it even begins to leave her mouth.

“Alright,” says Eskel, and then he pauses and cocks his head, like he’s listening for something.

“Oooh,” says Dragonfly, grinning, “is that a mouse in the walls?”

“Too big to be a mouse,” says Eskel, even as his eyes light up and his terrifying face twists into a smile. He starts to stalk towards the unlit fireplace. “But that’s definitely a critter.”

With that, he lunges to reach up the chimney and pulls. To Livi’s consumate shock, a child comes out in his arms, wriggling and giggling all the while.

Eskel scoops them up and swings them easily around in the air, mock-growling all the while as he pretends to take a bite from his squirming captive.

“Uncle Eskel!” the child protests, even between laughs.

Eskel puts them down, and they turn to smile cheerfully at Oliwia. She’s a girl-child, Livi can see now, perhaps five or six years younger than Oliwia herself—around nine or ten—with white-blond hair and brilliant green eyes. She is absolutely covered in soot. And so too, now, is Eskel.

“Uncle Eskel, who’s this?” the child asks, absolutely fearless.

“This is Livi, from Redania,” Eskel says, ruffling her soot-streaked hair.

The child is frowning at Livi now. More specifically, at her bandaged feet. “You’re hurt,” she says. “What happened?”

“I was hurt,” Livi acknowledges, “but Mistress Triss has done a phenomenal job of tending to my wounds, and I shall be better very soon, I am sure.”

It is an easy enough deflection, and Livi certainly doesn’t want to explain to this innocent child exactly how and why she was so injured.

“Oh, well that’s okay then,” the child declares. “Triss is the best at healing!”

“I certainly found her to be very skilled, yes,” Livi agrees.

The child nods. “But what are you doing here?”

That is a harder deflection. “Well,” Livi hedges. She sends a pleading look to Lord Eskel, who likely knows the answer better than Livi herself and also likely knows better than her what is appropriate to say to a child, only to find him already studying her with a thoughtful frown.

 “You’re educated,” he says. “In accounting, Triss said, and courtly…stuff.”

“Yes,” Livi agrees, no idea where this is going. “I am educated in all the typical skills one might expect from a noble lady.”

She realizes, then, that a barbarian Witcher might not know what such skills are. It is hardly as if there is a well-published program for it, nor is a lady’s education so regimented and defined as a noble son may receive through their own tutors or at an institution like Oxenfurt, with its formalized study of the seven liberal arts.

 “That is to say,” she rushes to clarify, “I have studied and am practiced in estate management, courtly etiquette, deportment, diplomacy, history, geography, mathematics, the laws and governance of most of the northlands, trade and contracts, and some botany as well. I can play the harpsichord and the rebec, sew a very fair hand, and speak and write in Skellige and Zerrikanian, and read Nilfgaardian.”

“Huh,” says Eskel, as Dragonfly whistles in the background. “Well, I’ll have to ask your father, but it looks like you might have a new tutor, cub.”

To Oliwia, he adds, “This is Ciri. She’s the White Wolf’s daughter.”

Livi tries to swallow down her shock. She hadn’t known the White Wolf had any children, much less an acknowledged daughter. She can see the resemblance, now that she knows to look, between this girl and her father, not only in appearance—although the hair is quite similar—but in the way she holds herself: calm and confident even so young, poised like…well, like a young wolf, swift and agile and fearless.

She does not think the White Wolf is married—such a thing surely would have been publicized across all the lands—so Ciri cannot be legitimate, but she is clearly acknowledged, and—from the child’s interactions with Eskel, at least, and her general boldness, and the fact that they are seeking tutoring for her—likely favored as well.

Perhaps Witchers care less for legitimacy than other peoples, or perhaps the warlord has legitimized her, or perhaps her mother is high in the White Wolf’s esteem—maybe that terrifying woman who might have been a sorceress from the council room?

“It would be my honor to be the young princess’s tutor,” Livi says. Princess is a guess, and a gamble—she’s not sure what one calls the daughter of a warlord, especially as she is unsure of the young lady’s status.

No one takes offense to the title, thank all the gods, although Ciri does giggle. “I’m not a princess,” she protests, “I’m a menace.”

“So you are,” Eskel sighs, not bothering at all to disguise the fondness in his voice. It doesn’t do anything to tell Oliwia what position the young child might have in this strange keep, but it is very endearing.

“Come on,” he continues, “let’s dunk you in a hot spring before supper. Did you have to find the sootiest chimney you could?”

“I wanted to be ready to hug Uncle Lambert,” Ciri says innocently.

Eskel snorts and shakes his head. “If you need anything, ask Dragonfly,” he tells Livi as he starts to usher Ciri out of the room. “We can sort out any more specifics and logistics tomorrow.”

“Yes, my l—Yessir.”

Eskel flashes her a wry smile, then turns to the other Witcher in the room. “Dragonfly?”

“I’ve got the watch,” the woman says, with a lazy salute.

He nods, and then he’s out the door with Ciri.

 As they go, Livi can hear him say, “Let’s see if we can find Lambert on the way down to the hot springs, cub.”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence in the wake of their departure.

“Thank you,” Livi says, stiltedly, feeling yet again as if it is the only thing she knows how to say. “For your brave and gracious defense of me today, although I, ah, I suppose I—misread the situation.”

But even so, Dragonfly had stood for her defense even against the White Wolf. It hadn’t really sunk in, until just now, but—

Dragonfly had stayed by her side, and knelt with her on the floor, and refused to leave even when her overlord ordered it. She had threatened the White Wolf over Livi, whom she had only just met, and had done so without so much as a second thought.

The Witcher shrugs, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Just being decent,” she mumbles. “’S what anyone would do.”

Livi laughs a little, then, though not with much humour. “Not anyone of my previous acquaintance,” she says. “Not until you.”

“You need better acquaintances, then,” Dragonfly says bluntly, and then winces at her own words.

“Perhaps I do,” Livi muses, feeling it as a revelation. “Perhaps—if it’s not too much trouble—you might introduce me to some better acquaintances, then? Not today, but if I am to be staying in the keep…”

“Yeah,” says Dragonfly. “Of course. You’re already off to a good start—can’t say I know most of the Wolves super well, but Eskel’s a good sort, and of course Triss is fantastic.”

Livi nods. “The Wolves?” she asks.

“Oh!” says Dragonfly. “Right, so: Witchers are divided up into seven schools. It’s how we’re trained, and your school is also kind of like your family. The White Wolf, is of course, a Wolf, and so’s Eskel and most of those closest to him.”

“And you are of the Cat school,” Livi says, recalling their introduction.

“Right, exactly. Don’t usually hang out that much around Wolves, but they tend to be decent sorts. Stupid in a fight sometimes, but loyal and brave. Like overgrown puppies.”

“Puppies?” Livi smothers a scandalized laugh.

“Oh, sure. You should see Gweld pining after Serrit. All big eyes and dopey smiles. Puppy.”

Gweld, she can guess from context, is a Witcher of the Wolf school. “Serrit is…his lady-love?” she guesses.

Dragonfly snorts. “Sure, you could call her that. I probably wouldn’t to her face though. Serrit’s a Viper, and a vicious motherfu—um. She’s vicious.”

“I see,” says Livi. “She is a Witcher as well, then? Of the…Viper School?” She wasn’t entirely sure if Dragonfly was using the term as an insult, or a classifier.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know before meeting you that there were female Witchers,” Livi admits. “Are there many of you?”

“Nah,” Dragonfly shakes her head. “Serrit's the only Viper—she’s a special case—and then there’s me and two others in the Cats. The old cowards who ran the Trials didn’t like using girls much; us three were an experiment.”

“Oh,” says Livi. She doesn’t know what the Trials are, but, “Being an experiment sounds...dreadful.”

Dragonfly shrugs. “It is what it is.”

At that point, there’s a knock on the door, which turns out to be clothes and towels and a bath. Dragonfly checks with Livi before allowing the two young men—boys, really, about Livi’s age—to haul a steaming tub into the sitting room.

“Aniela said to come down tomorrow for proper fittings and such, but this should do for now,” one of the boys reports as he lays a stack of clothes on the desk.

“Great,” says Dragonfly. “Will do. Now, shoo.”

“Thank you!” Livi calls after them, a bit startled by the brusque way Dragonfly shepherds them out the door.

“Want me to stick around while you bathe,” Dragonfly asks, “or no?”

“Ah.” Livi glances at the door. The trainees seemed harmless enough and are gone now besides, but still this is a keep full of men, and Witchers, and—her nerves are quite frayed after the trials of the day. “Would you mind staying? Please?”

“I don’t mind, but you might,” Dragonfly says after a few seconds considering it. “You’ve had—bad experiences with men.”

Livi flushes. “Yes,” she whispers. “Nothing actually—I made them stop, but…”

“Right.” Dragonfly nods, solemn. “You should know I prefer women, so…might not want me in the room, if you’re twitchy about that.”

Livi blinks at her. She’s not quite sure what the Witcher is trying to tell her. “Prefer women?” she eventually asks, when puzzling it out fails.

Dragonfly blushes, and shifts uncertainly. “Look, I’ll sit outside the door,” she says. “No one will come in; try not to get your feet wet, and sing out if you get into trouble.”

“…Alright,” Livi agrees, still mildly baffled.

The tub is close enough to her chair that she can lever herself from the seat into the water fairly easily, although it requires some significant contortion to get herself undressed without standing. She lets the gown and her underthings fall to the floor, wincing at the wrinkled heap they end up in, and spends several minutes carefully prying out all her hairpins and unclasping all the jewelry.

By the time she is completely bare, she is panting from the effort and her hands are shaking.

She lowers herself unsteadily into the tub—the water is still hot, despite the distance it must have travelled and the time since it arrived—and bites back a whine at the feeling of hot water lapping at all her welts and bruises.

The balm Triss had spread on her was truly remarkable, and she has not been in pain since its application, but even such a miraculous substance must have its limits.

Her feet she leaves dangling over the rim of the tub, unwilling to subject them to the water.

For a long moment, Livi just sits there and shakes.

It is all coming crashing into her, now that she is alone, truly alone for the first time in weeks, and—nothing happened, she tells herself. Nothing happened, and you are fine.

Everyone since she has come to the keep has been so kind. Terrifying, yes, but kind.

Even the White Wolf, with his golden eyes and menacing swords and his air of constant, waiting danger. But he didn’t so much as touch Livi, and he had knelt to face her, and he had accepted her service as something other than a bedwarmer.

And Triss had been so immediately protective, and Eskel quite steady and practical in his thoughtfulness and care, and Dragonfly…

Well, Dragonfly.

Livi had not thought she would be able to find even an ounce of respite in Kaer Morhen, but with Dragonfly guarding the door, she feels safe.

For the third time today, Livi finds herself breaking apart. She is so wrung out she can barely cry, but she hugs her face to her wet knees and just shakes.

Her breath hitches in uneven gulps, and it is a long, long time before she manages to pull herself back together. The water  has gone tepid, and Livi lifelessly scrubs her body clean and washes her hair. The soap smells nice. Like roses.

Then she just sits there some more. Eventually, she realizes that she can’t get out of the tub—at least, not without getting her feet wet or injuring herself more, so she tentatively calls out to Dragonfly for help.

Dragonfly comes in and easily lifts her out of the tub, then helps her get dry, and then get dressed, and then go to the privy down the hall, where the other woman once again waits outside for her to do her business.

Then she brings Livi back to her room, where Livi forces down a few bites of the food that has appeared from somewhere before passing out, utterly exhausted.

“Sleep,” is the last thing she hears, in Dragonfly’s comforting low rasp. “I’ll keep watch.”

And Livi does.

Chapter Text

Livi wakes early. Hardly a surprise, as it was still entirely light out when she fell asleep.

She dresses in the new clothes provided for her in the gray light of pre-dawn, feeling a distinct sense of unreality all the while. Surely yesterday couldn’t have happened as she remembered it? But she is in the same room as her memories; and Dragonfly is in the outer chamber, having apparently stayed out there all night; and even in spite of the aching sting of her many wounds, Livi feels better and more clear-headed than she has in weeks.

The clothes are simple and sturdy things made of plain brown wool, slightly too big for her, with cotton underthings. Blissfully modest, if painfully plain. She has no shoes—the ruined slippers must have been left in Triss’s office—but someone has thoughtfully provided several pairs of thick, woolen socks, so she layers them on over the bandages as protection against the biting cold.

As she dresses, she reviews the new rules of propriety she has gleaned for this strange place, resolved to do her best not to cause offense: no titles for anyone save the White Wolf; do not show shock at female warriors or feral little children; be polite to all but not formal. It all goes against every lesson that Livi’s ever been taught, but she will do her best.

Dragonfly has to help her properly arrange the skirts—it is quite hard to do so without being able to stand—but she otherwise manages to clothe herself quite competently.

Dragonfly also has more of that wonderful salve from Triss, which she allows Livi to apply herself in the privacy of her room.

“I hope you got some sleep?” she asks the Witcher, fretting over the fact that she’d left the woman out in the cold sitting room all night.

“I meditated,” Dragonfly says, shrugging. “Witchers don’t need as much sleep as humans—don’t worry about it.”

Livi swallows and nods. “Are there many things that are different between Witchers and humans?” she asks.

Dragonfly frowns. “A fair amount, yeah. We’re, well—the Trials burn the humanity out of us, they say. Make us stronger, faster, sharper, better conduits for Chaos. We can do magic—not as much as a mage, but enough. A lot of things that are poison to humans are fine for a Witcher. Potions and plants and such. Uh, our senses are better. We can hear things, see things, that humans can’t. Smell things—that’s actually a big one, I think humans don’t really rely much on their sense of smell? I can’t really remember.”

“Ah, no,” Livi agrees. “Not generally.”

Dragonfly nods. “Well, Witchers do. Comes in real handy.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure there’s other things, but I’m not really sure what. I don’t really spend all that much time with humans, and it’s been decades since I was one, and I was a kid then. The memories are all real fuzzy.”

From the forced nonchalance in Dragonfly’s tone, Livi suspects the memories might be painful as well as fuzzy, and she resolves not to pry, at least not so early in their acquaintance. “Well, then, I suppose I shall learn as I go,” she says with deliberate optimism.

“Yeah,” says Dragonfly. “Breakfast?”

Breakfast sounds wonderful, especially as Livi had not eaten overmuch yesterday, and so she finds herself scooped up in Dragonfly’s grasp once again and borne down the stairs towards the kitchen.

And more stairs. And more.

“I apologize for all the trouble—especially with carrying me down and up again so many stairs,” says Livi, from her perch in Dragonfly’s arms.

Dragonfly shrugs and grins. “No trouble,” she says. “You’re lighter’n anything, anyway. Like a baby bird.”

Livi pouts at her. “I think you’re just very strong.”

“Witchers are, generally.”

“How strong are you, La—Dragonfly?”

“Could carry Eskel all day if I had to,” Dragonfly says, shrugging a little. “Plus all his gear and mine.”

Livi boggles at that, a little. Dragonfly is not a small woman, but Eskel was one of the largest men she had ever seen, and made of entirely muscle. Not to mention however much the full gear of two Witchers must weigh.

“Quite strong, then,” Livi says.

“Yeah,” says Dragonfly. “So don’t worry about it.” She frowns a bit. “I’m sorry you’re kinda stuck with me ’til at least your feet heal, though. That’s gotta be frustrating.”

Livi is certainly not glad she is so injured, but... “I find your presence comforting,” she admits.

She knows it cannot be forever—surely Dragonfly must have other duties—but at least for now, knowing that Dragonfly will be there, when she is surrounded by strangers and Witchers in this completely unfamiliar place...Dragonfly feels safe.

“Huh,” says Dragonfly, looking down at her. “You really mean that.”

Livi blushes just a little, embarrassed. “I do,” she says firmly.

“Huh.”

They have breakfast in the kitchens, where a young woman a few years older than Livi comes over to chat. She’s human, and a baker’s apprentice, and her name is Julita. Livi learns that Julita has a sweetheart called Roland whom she’s quite besotted with and that she wants to learn how to make fancy fruit pasties like they do in Toussaint, but that she’s very happy apprenticed under Mistress Emilia, who’s the head baker in Kaer Morhen. She asks if Livi is from Zerrikania, and if they have any special sorts of pastries there, and Livi has to admit that she’s never been, nor had much occasion to try Zerrikanian cuisine.

“I understand from my grandmother that there’s a spicy kind of dumpling that is quite popular as festival fare, but as for pastries, I just don’t know.”

“Sambousek,” says Dragonfly, nodding. “That’s what they call the dumplings. They’re kind of pastry-like. Bit too spicy, though.”

“Ah, well,” says Julita, accepting that with an easy smile. “Any favorites you do have? I’m always looking for an excuse to make something new. Especially if you’ll be here a while?”

“Ah,” says Livi. So far, she has managed to avoid disclosing her origins or purpose in Kaer Morhen. “Yes, I believe I will be here for the foreseeable future at least.”

Dragonfly hums and nods, and thankfully doesn’t expand upon why that is the case.

“As for favorites,” Livi continues, “I quite like anything with cherries? And apricots, although I know they will not grow this far north.”

“Oh, but we get them shipped in!” says Julita. “Dried, mostly, or jammed—they don’t last long enough fresh to survive the journey, but honestly jam is quite good enough for pastry filling.”

“So it is,” Livi agrees, although she knows nothing of how pastries are actually made. “Where do you get them from?”

Cintra, apparently, which astounds Livi, as Cintra is on the western edge of the continent, far to the south of even Redania, on the borders of the Nilfgaardian Empire.

Meanwhile, Kaer Morhen is about as north and east as it is possible to get, given that the Dragon Mountains are utterly impassable.

But apparently the Cintran ships go up the coast to Novigrad—which Livi knew, Novigrad is the largest port within Redania’s borders, although as a free city is not subject to Redanian law or taxes—and from there are loaded into barges to go up the Pontar into Kaedwen, then up the Buine, and then portaged up to the Gwenllech until they finally reach Kaer Morhen.

She had not realized there was enough of a market this far north to make the months-long journey—and upriver the whole time, meaning the barges need be towed or rowed—worthwhile.

“It’s not enough that we’re constantly in supply,” Julita explains, “But we’ve almost always got something exotic, except in the winters and early spring. Right now we have pistachios, too, from Zerrikania, and saffron and cardamom which must have originally come from Nilfgaard, though I am not sure of the route—I think they may have been part of some tribute or another. We do not generally use the spicier spices, as Witchers’ palates are too sensitive to enjoy such things.”

Livi tucks that information away, and they  all three chatter a bit more about exotic foods they have tried—Dragonfly, it turns out, has been to both Zerrikania and Nilfgaard, as well as everywhere else on the continent, and so has them both handily beat for sheer number of foods tried, although she admits that she mostly hunted and foraged for her own keep—until Julita has to go unload the ovens and get back to work.

Shortly thereafter, the terrifying and fancy lady from the council room sweeps in and spots them.

“Ah, there you are,” she says, sitting down without so much as an invitation.  “Good—saves me a trip upstairs.”

She is as terrifying and fancy today as she was in Livi’s memory. Her dress this morning is green silk, just as extravagant and scandalously cut as yesterday’s. Definitely highly favored by the warlord, then, as she had thought. Perhaps this is Ciri’s mother? She certainly dresses like a queen, or a sorceress.

Either way, she is quite intimidating and Livi does not want to provoke her anger. If that is even possible to avoid, given the purpose Livi was sent for. Although Livi had not intended or even wanted it, her presence here was an accidental threat to the woman’s position as…the warlord’s favored lover? Chief sorceress? Both?

Livi is especially glad, then, that she is in such modest clothes now. Even if she probably looks more akin to a servant than a noble, her current garb hopefully spells out just how little of a threat Livi is in any dimension. Not worth this woman’s rivalry.

“Anyway,” says the woman, “I’ve talked it over with Eskel and Geralt, and if you’re going to be tutoring Ciri, we’ll have to work out a schedule.”

“Of course,” says Livi, bowing her head to the older woman. “Are you also teaching her, then, my lady?” She is breaking the rule about titles, but if anyone in the keep is due a title, it is likely this woman.

The lady grins and inclines her head in a regal nod. “Ciri’s going to be the most powerful sorceress in millennia,” the woman says. “She’s going to be magnificent.”

Livi has…no idea what to do with the fact that her student, in addition to being the warlord’s daughter, is a sorceress-to-be, so she sets aside the thought to deal with later. It is nice, although mildly terrifying, to have confirmation that this woman is a sorceress.

“We shall most definitely have to coordinate on the scheduling, then,” Livi says. “And might I know your name, my lady?”

The sorceress blinks at her for a few seconds, then laughs ruefully. “I’m Yen, little dove,” she says. “Yennefer of Vengerberg. I’m the White Wolf’s chief sorceress. I apologize, that’s dreadful manners on my part—I’m used to everyone just knowing who I am.”

Livi bows low in her seat, unable to rise for a proper curtsey. She is quite grateful for the cushion Dragonfly rustled up for her from somewhere. “I am honored,” she says. “And I take no offense—I am admittedly less well-read up upon the warlord’s court than I should like to be.”

It is a calculated admission—not one she would ever make at court, where to show weakness would be utter folly—but one she hopes will further cement her as harmless in the sorceress’s mind, and one that, if she is lucky, could garner her both sympathy and more knowledge.

Lady Yennefer nods slowly. “You weren’t given very much lead time to research Kaer Morhen, then?”

“None at all,” Livi admits. “I was already on the horse when I learned where I was going.”

“That’s some fucking bullshit,” says Dragonfly from right next to her, causing Livi to jump a little in her seat.

Livi grimaces a little at the coarse language, but does not disagree.

Of course, even had she had the time and fair warning, there would not have been much to research—as far as Livi knows, the warlord’s keep is a mystery even to Redania’s top officials and spies. Tribute goes in, and nothing goes out.

That is, nothing besides armies of Witchers, overthrowing yet another country every few years.

“Where did you think you were going, then?” Dragonfly asks.

“On a daytrip,” says Livi, entirely truthfully. “Which also accounts for my lack of luggage.”

It is a ridiculous thing, but she does not want these terrifying and competent women to think that she is so useless that she decided not to even pack socks when traveling halfway across the continent.

“Fucking bullshit,” Dragonfly mutters again. “We could probably send someone to get your stuff, if there’s anything you want?”

Livi blinks rapidly against the tears that threaten to come at that pronouncement. “Thank you,” she says, and clears her throat. “Thank you, but—I have been clothed and fed quite comfortably here, and…there is nothing left for me in Redania.”

Her father has likely already sold or recycled or thrown away most of her things. Denesle had not been doing particularly well financially, and the warlord’s invasion had only made everything worse.

Or perhaps her father would have given Livi’s possessions unto his new wife. He had been looking, before her departure, as he still needed an heir. Sofya de Pindal had been a likely candidate, and was about Oliwia’s same size. Livi’s dresses would fit her with only some modest tailoring.

Her diaries and saved correspondence, the only things she would really like to keep, are probably already read through and burned.

She is glad her friends had the good sense to never write anything even slightly impolitic to her—Sasha, especially, had a habit of being…less than flattering about his own grandfather when they talked in private. Given his grandfather was Duke Velen, she could not fault him for it.

Sasha is going to be so worried for her. He’d been nearly out of his mind with stress at the thought of her…courtship with Velen. And Milena, too, is likely to be concerned.

“Perhaps,” Livi ventures, “I might be allowed to write to a few of my friends in Redania, to assure them of my wellbeing? And I should of course let my lord father know of my safe arrival in the keep.”

“That should be doable,” says Lady Yennefer.

Livi nods. “I will, of course, submit any missives to be read as need be for the safety and security of the keep—is there someone in particular I ought to talk to about that?”

“Good point.” Lady Yennefer taps her lips thoughtfully. “I can do it,” she declares. “I’ll even pop open a few miniature portals for it, so that they don’t have to take months to get across the continent.”

Livi is quite astonished at the offer. “That is very kind of you,” she says cautiously.

Lady Yennefer smiles, vicious. “I assure you it isn’t,” she says. “I like having people owe me favors.”

Ah. That makes much more sense. Livi, strangely, feels much more comfortable now that she knows where she stands.

Livi meets the sorceress’s smile with her own, much more innocent one. “Everyone in Kaer Morhen has been so kind, since my arrival,” she muses. “I find myself thinking that I owe a great many debts of kindness. Unto the warlord, of course, to whom I owe my utmost and loyal service. Unto Lord Eskel, who facilitated my entrance to the keep and has afforded me the great honor of gracious Dragonfly’s accompaniment.”

Dragonfly, baffled, offers her a tentative smile at that, and Livi beams at her.

“Unto the Princess Ciri,” Livi continues, “who has graciously accepted my service as a tutor. And unto Lady Triss, who has offered me healing and protection.  So if you were to follow in their tradition of kindnesses, I of course would be happy to accept a small debt or two.”

In other words, sure, I’ll owe you a favor, as long as I don’t have to go against any of these other people. And remember that these other people are in my corner.

Of course, they are all certainly more attached to Lady Yennefer than to her, but as long as it doesn’t come to an outright contest between the two of them, it should be fine.

“I believe I see your priorities exactly,” says Lady Yennefer, a pleased smile drawing across her face. “And find them quite fitting, especially if you are to stay in Kaer Morhen.”

“Oh, good,” says Livi. “I had high hopes you might.”

She had done her best to order them in proper rank, although she still has no idea as to Ciri’s actual position in court, if she truly is a princess or simply a sorceress-to-be. Either way, Ciri went before Triss because Ciri is Yennefer’s personal student and possible daughter whom she shows great pride in, whereas Triss is Yennefer’s subordinate.

Eskel went before Ciri because, even if Ciri were the White Wolf’s heir—which seems unlikely for an illegitimate girl-child—the White Wolf’s adult right hand most certainly holds more power now.

Dragonfly, meanwhile, is looking between the two of them absolutely baffled. “What just happened?”

“Oh, Lady Livi and I have just come to an understanding.”

“Indeed,” Livi agrees, feeling quite pleased and good deal more settled. “Although—perhaps I will not ask for your help in portalling a letter to my father.”

“You want to let him stew in it,” says Lady Yennefer with cruel delight.

Livi sniffs and doesn’t quite agree. “He will not be expecting any missive from me for several months, if at all.”

But yes, she does want him to stew in whatever guilt and uncertainty he might have at her fate. And she certainly doesn’t want to spend a favor on writing to him.

“You haven’t been here a day yet and you’re already showing spine.” Lady Yennefer seems quite pleased with that.

“They say to begin as you mean to go on,” says Livi, with a confidence she doesn’t truly feel. “I can hardly cower away from everyone forever.”

“You could,” muses Lady Yen. “It would just get very boring very quickly. Not to mention irritating.”

“I do try not to irritate,” Livi agrees cheerfully. She cannot match the sorceress for sheer dry wit, but she finds that cheerful agreement often does the job just as well.

Indeed, Lady Yen laughs. “Witchers respect courage. Stand your ground, little dove, and you’ll be fine.”

Dragonfly is nodding along to that, so Livi says, “I thank you for the advice.”

“Though the real question, of course,” Lady Yen goes on, “is whether you’ll be able to hold your own against the menace. And on that note—lesson planning?”

Well. It seems that ‘menace,’ not princess, is indeed the title for Lady Ciri. Livi will probably not be using it aloud, though, at least until she is more sure of her footing here.

They soon hash out a schedule. Apparently, Lady Ciri is in training to be a Witcher as well as a sorceress—another completely baffling revelation to be set aside for later—but her education in everything else up to this point has been quite piecemeal.

Livi, they decide, will teach her in the mornings, with Lady Yen to oversee their first few sessions.

“We can start this morning,” Lady Yen says, completely oblivious to Livi’s internal panic at that pronouncement. “It’s still early enough. Dragonfly, you’re welcome to sit in, although I’m sure you’ll find it dreadfully boring and you’d be missing out on training.”

Dragonfly grimaces.

Livi hesitates, but—she does believe she has an understanding with Lady Yen now, and she can hardly be tied to Dragonfly all the time just as she cannot be tied entirely to Triss—and so she offers, “If you have other duties to attend to, I would am quite sure I would be safe with Lady Yennefer and Lady Ciri for the duration of these lessons. Though I would appreciate if you would, ah, drop me off and collect me again at their closing.”

Dragonfly chews her lip thoughtfully. “You sure?” she asks, serious.

Livi takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says. She does not believe Lady Yen will allow any others to harm her—or, more accurately, to allow anything to happen that would upset the little Lady Ciri. And if Lady Yen wishes to hurt Livi herself—well. She is a sorceress. They generally do as they please, and no bodyguard could truly stop one.

…And maybe also she doesn’t want to make a complete fool of herself in front of Dragonfly if these lessons go badly.

“Alright.”

So it is that Livi is carried up yet more stairs—these ones entirely separate from the ones they came down, and rising up even higher—accompanied this time by the Lady Yennefer, who gives an informative and highly entertaining tour as they go.

Everything is happening so suddenly that Livi barely has the chance to panic that she does not actually know how to teach anyone, let alone a Witcher-sorceress warlord’s daughter. Oliwia is a month out still from sixteen, barely out of her own education—much too young to be a tutor, or a governess, or whatever it is she is to be.

And this has to go well. It is her only chance to prove she is worth keeping.

Lady Ciri’s chambers are at the top of a tower, with her father’s—with the White Wolf’s—rooms immediately below. Next to the White Wolf’s rooms, down the entire hall both ways, live all the other Witchers of the Wolf School. Lady Ciri, she thinks, must be the most protected person in the whole keep.

“Schools are quite important to Witchers,” Livi observes. Kind of like your family, she remembers Dragonfly saying about them.

The woman in question hums in agreement.

“Is there any way to tell which school a Witcher belongs to?” Livi asks.

“Medallions,” says Dragonfly. “We all got ‘em. Mine’s—here.” She taps her chin down towards her chest, as her arms are entirely full of Livi.

Blushing, Livi examines the silver medallion resting at the hollow of Dragonfly’s throat. It does indeed show a roaring cat of some sort in high relief. She does not know enough about big cats to identify precisely which kind, but—a mountain lion, perhaps. Or a panther.

It is a large emblem, but without any color to pick out the design, Livi is sure it will be quite hard to discern any given Witcher’s allegiance at a glance.

The workmanship of it is beautiful, and Livi finds herself stroking the cheek of the cat without really thinking about it.

Dragonfly startles a bit.

“Sorry!” Livi quickly draws her hand back. “I did not mean to presume.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Dragonfly. “Just, uh, our medallions are tied to our magic, and, uh, family, and it can be a bit…well, personal.”

“I apologize,” says Livi, flushed with shame. She wishes she could put some distance between herself and the other woman, but it’s hardly possible when she is literally cradled in Dragonfly’s arms.

“It’s fine,” says Dragonfly again. “Really. You can touch. If you want. Just, maybe don’t, uh, go up to a stranger and put your hands on theirs.”

“I will not,” Livi promises, swallowing hard.

“Seriously, though, it’s—you’re fine. If you want.”

Hesitantly, Livi reaches up once again to stroke the metal cat nestled into Dragonfly’s neck. Her fingers are trembling a bit. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

Dragonfly grins, as toothy and fierce as the snarling medallion. “Thanks,” she says.

“We’re here,” says Lady Yen.

Livi startles a bit at the announcement.

There’s a wry note to the sorceress’s voice and a speculative look on her face that Livi can’t quite place.

Lady Ciri’s chambers are set up much like Livi’s own, though more personalized, with an outer sitting room and a closed door that presumably leads to a bedchamber.

There’s a table with writing implements set up by the room’s only window, where the light is best, and Lady Ciri is sitting on top of the table, kicking her legs idly back and forth.

She is in a plain shirt and trousers and is, at least, much less sooty today than she had been yesterday.

Her face wrinkles when Livi comes in, and she says, “Papa says you’re to teach me maths, and history and geography and laws and politics, and all sorts of boring stuff, ugh.”

Livi…has no idea how to respond to that. It’s rude, yes, but she has no idea how rude by Witcher standards, and even so she does not feel entirely comfortable correcting this young lady whose de facto status she is still unsure of, and upon whose sufferance her position here rests. Not to mention she would feel uncomfortable correcting anyone the way Livi was corrected as a child on the very rare instances of her willful disrespect, and she does not have a switch or a ruler anyway.

But she also cannot let it stand. First, she cannot be an effective tutor if she lets the young lady run slipshod all over her. And the real question, Lady Yen had said, is whether you’ll be able to hold your own against the menace. This is a test, and a rather blunt one at that.

She does not know whether it is intentional on Lady Ciri’s part, but she is keenly aware of the sorceress watching to see what she will do.

Livi has never spent much time with younger children, and cannot draw upon her own experience to solve this issue, as she had always been quite enthusiastic about her own lessons. Though perhaps that is because even at a very young age, Livi had understood their importance—her mother had died when she was seven, in the bearing of her brother, who had not long survived his birth. Her grandmother, her lord father’s mother, had still lived with them until her death last year, but she was…increasingly diminished with age, and especially towards the end had forgotten how to perform many of her duties. Livi has known she would have to be the lady of the house for as long as she can remember, and she had seen how people suffered when those duties were not met—when wages were not properly paid, or petty grievances allowed to fester, or preparations for the winter not sufficiently secured. How people died.

“Maths and history and geography and laws and politics, yes,” Livi repeats her young charge’s words calmly, thoughtfully, not letting her uncertainty or displeasure show. It is a stalling tactic, but an effective one that allows her time to think. “Boring, no. Unless you consider the matter of people’s lives boring.”

Lady Ciri squints at her. “What does that mean?” she asks.

Livi gives her best shot at a mysterious smile. “You’ll have to learn to find out, my lady,” she says.

Lady Ciri looks like she knows this is a ploy to get her to focus on the lessons, but also like she really does want to know what Livi is talking about.

Livi doesn’t let herself sigh in relief—she is quite sure this child will pounce upon any sign of weakness—but it seems that curiosity will be a decent enough hook, at least to grab the girl’s attention. Keeping it, Livi is sure will be an entirely different struggle.

Livi asks Dragonfly to seat her at the table, and invites Lady Ciri to sit next to her, for ease of demonstration. Lady Yennefer seats herself in a plush armchair in the corner of the room, far enough away that it is clear she is not part of the lesson. Livi is thankful for it—Lady Ciri must be used to deferring to the sorceress as her instructor, and so it would be very hard for Livi to assert her own authority if the sorceress joined them at the table.

“Right,” says Dragonfly, “If you’re good here, I’m gonna go join in training, then.”

“Alright,” Livi agrees, voice calm despite the nervous anxiety she feels at the prospect of the coming lesson and Dragonfly leaving. Her stomach is flipping in a truly impressive display of acrobatics as she desperately tries to think up a lesson plan for the next few hours. Thankfully, if court—and Duke Velen—had taught her one thing, it was how to be entirely and outwardly pleasant and agreeable no matter what she was feeling.

Dragonfly studies her for a long moment before nodding. “Alright,” she echoes. “I’ll pick you up after training.”

Instead of going out the door, however, Dragonfly hops up on the table—carefully not disturbing anything—and slinks through the open window.

Livi gasps as Dragonfly just—drops. She automatically lurches forward to grab the other woman, half on the table and head out the window, and…there is Dragonfly, laughing and magnificent, as she drops from window-ledge to window-ledge in a rapid descent to the courtyard below.

When she is two stories from the ground, Dragonfly pushes herself off the wall and does a flip in midair, braid whipping out behind her. Another Witcher points at her from below does something that causes light to crackle beneath her, and Dragonfly is pushed back up into the air, where she does another flip before landing on the ground in an easy roll and pops up, entirely uninjured.

Livi cannot hear anything from this distance over the rush of the wind and the blood in her ears, but the way Dragonfly throws back her head shows she is still laughing in delight. She claps the other Witcher on the back and then looks back up at the tower.

It is not quite possible at this distance, but Livi is sure Dragonfly meets her eyes as she casually salutes to Livi and then scampers off to join the many, many other Witchers training in the massive courtyard.

Livi swallows rapidly, dizzy from unneeded fear and the sheer height of the tower, and cautiously pulls herself back in through the window and into her seat.

“Well,” she says, completely discombobulated, Dragonfly’s delighted laugh still ringing in her head.

“That’s Witchers for you,” says Lady Yen from the corner. “Especially Cats.”

Livi breathes very slowly to try and settle her racing heart. “Triss mentioned that Guxart had had to fish three cats off the walls this month alone,” she says, trying to keep her voice casual. The sentence had made absolutely no sense at the time, but Livi had noted it and catalogued it the same way she tried to do for everything. She has always had a good mind for details and names. With added context now, cats almost certainly meant Cats. “I take it this kind of behavior is what she meant?”

“Indeed,” says Lady Yen. “Guxart is the head of the Cats, and therefore responsible for getting them out of whatever ridiculous perches they’ve gotten themselves into.”

“I see,” says Livi.

“I’m not allowed to jump out the window yet,” Lady Ciri pouts. “Papa says not until I can run the hardest obstacle course.”

“That seems a reasonable restriction,” Livi comments, still in utter shock.

“But that might be never,” Lady Ciri sighs. “Normal humans can’t run the hardest few courses, and I’m training with the Witchers but I’m not a trainee.”

Livi doesn’t know what that means, but she doesn’t ask. Instead, she says, “I will leave such restrictions entirely to your father’s discretion, as I am sure he knows much better than me. We are going to focus on lessons.”

She is highly aware of Lady Yen in the corner, observing. Livi has already allowed herself to be distracted from her singular task here—she cannot let such distractions continue.

Lady Ciri groans with her whole tiny body and flops forward onto the table. “But why?” she whines. “Nobody said I had to learn any of this stuff until you showed up.”

“Lady Yen has informed me that you are training with the Witchers, and to be a sorceress,” Livi says, instead of directly answering. “Why are you learning those skills?”

It is an attempt to get little Lady Ciri to think about the purposes of education in general, but it is mainly an excuse for Livi to ask the burningly important question about how important exactly her small…overlady? is.

Lady Ciri looks absolutely baffled at the question. “…Because I’m going to be a sorceress-Witcher?” She answers, like it’s obvious.

“Alright,” Livi allows, “and what are you going to do with those skills?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” says Livi, searching for any way to phrase this diplomatically, “will you be a part of your father’s army?” Such a thing would have seemed absolutely absurd for a girl-child only yesterday morning, but that had been before she met Dragonfly, and she cannot imagine what else someone training to be a Witcher might do.

“Duh,” says Lady Ciri. “I’m going to be one of Papa’s captains when I’m grown. Maybe I’ll be warlord after him. I don’t know, it sounds awfully terrible, being warlord. Papa is always stressed about it.”

Livi manages somehow to not whimper at that proclamation. She darts a glance at Lady Yen, but the sorceress seems entirely unaffected and unsurprised. This is not a treasonous sentiment, then. Or if it is, it’s one supported by the warlord’s chief sorceress.

So, the Lady Ciri is at the very least a serious candidate for being the warlord’s successor and heir.

And the girl in question is for some reason entirely ambivalent about that.

It is…an absolutely incomprehensible state of affairs for Livi, but she locks it away with the rest of everything she will unpack later. That part of her mind is unfortunately growing quite large.

“So it sounds to me like, no matter what, you plan to be in charge of people when you are grown,” Livi says, desperately trying to direct the conversation towards something she actually knows.

“Yes,” says Lady Ciri. Princess Ciri?

…Later.

“If you are to be in charge of any people, and making decisions for them, there are any number of skills that you must have in order to do so effectively,” says Livi. “And those skills depend on knowing things such as maths, and geography, and history, and politics, and laws.”

“…How?” Lady Ciri asks, suspicious.

“Well, let us take geography, to start with. Have you learned anything to do with tactics dependent upon terrain in your martial training?”

This is not something Livi knows well at all, but she understands from songs and stories and such that those things can be quite important in battle. And she thinks she will do best, at least to start with, if she ties everything back to Lady Ciri’s demonstrated interests.

“Of course,” says Lady Ciri. She starts chattering on about the importance of holding the high ground, and the positioning of the sun, and the sturdiness of the ground. She is quite intelligent and engaged, Livi notes, when the subject is of interest to her.

“That is geography,” Livi interrupts the little lady’s excited rant. “Except geography is even bigger. If you are to lead armies, you need to know where the mountains and hills and swamps and forests and towns and cities are, and how they may be transversed. And also where the borders are. Let us suppose that you are leading a large group of Witchers in…oh, say Upper Aedirn, for example. Fighting against a group that opposes the White Wolf’s rule.”

“Alright,” Lady Ciri allows the hypothetical.

Livi takes a sheet of paper and a quill and sketches a very rough map of Aedirn and its surrounds, narrating to Ciri as she goes—here are the Mahakam Mountains, and here the country of Temeria, here Kaedwen, and here the Valley of Flowers, here the Blue Mountains, and here the Pontar River.

Livi briefly explains how mountains are hard to transverse, but also easy for someone to hide in, or defend. How rivers can make transport much quicker, but also prove an obstacle to cross.

“North of the Pontar River is land under your father’s direct control,” Livi explains. “Upper Aedirn. And south of the Pontar, Lower Aedirn, is allied to the White Wolf. But Temeria is neither. The Mahakam mountains are contested territory, and inhabited mainly by dwarves, who are traditionally hostile to both Aedirn and Temeria.”

“Got it,” says Ciri, frowning in concentration at the makeshift map.

“Now,” says Livi, “your military instructors can teach you much better than I about what makes sense to do militarily. But there are other concerns here too. If you cross the Pontar into Lower Aedirn—or even if you get too close—then King Gwidon, who rules Aedirn, may think that the White Wolf means to conquer the rest of Aedirn, even though you are allied. And then he will be hostile towards you, and towards the entirety of the Wolflands. He may send his own soldiers to defend his borders. Or he may stop any food shipments heading north. This area here—the Valley of Flowers, Dol Blathanna—is entirely in Lower Aedirn, and it is one of the biggest food producers in the North. About half of Kaedwen’s food supply—and therefore Kaer Morhen's food supply—comes from the Valley of Flowers. Which means that you especially don’t want to march through the Valley of Flowers with a large army, or have any battles there, because that will destroy the crops and then people will starve. Unless you want people to starve—sometimes that is a strategy that kings and generals take, to make it so that their enemies have no food or resources.”

“That’s horrible!” Lady Ciri protests. “I would never do that, and neither would Papa.”

Oliwia inclines her head, not about to argue that point. It is a horrible thing to do, although she does not believe that the White Wolf would give up such an advantage if it were in his favor. “Perhaps you wouldn’t do it on purpose,” she allows. “But maybe your enemies will deliberately target farmland, because they know it will hurt you. And if you don’t know geography, or why certain areas are more or less important, you might get caught up chasing your enemies and destroy the land accidentally.”

“…Oh,” says Lady Ciri. “I never thought of that before.”

“That’s why you’re still learning,” says Livi with a kind smile. “And why these things are important to learn.”

“I learned this morning from one of the bakers that Kaer Morhen gets some food imported from Cintra, by sea,” Livi adds. “As long as the riverways are open and protected, then you will likely not starve. You could even import extra food so that none of your people starve.” The expense of such would almost certainly be completely prohibitive, but Lady Ciri’s obvious horror at the idea of people starving is a good way to get her to start thinking about logistics and expenses and such.

“That is a calculation a warlord or a general might make, in deciding what to do. But you would need to know how much it would cost to import food, how much extra food Cintra has, how much money you have, how many people you need to feed, and whether the existing infrastructure—barges and such—can even support that much extra trade, or whether more boats need to be built and sailors hired. So there’s a lot of maths you must needs be able to do.”

“That’s a lot of stuff to know,” Lady Ciri says, looking completely overwhelmed.

Perhaps Livi is pushing too hard. She just…she needs Lady Ciri to accept her teaching, because otherwise she has no place here. So she needs to convince Lady Ciri of just how important this kind of knowledge is. And so she may be rambling about every possible relevant consideration that pops into her head in a desperate attempt to show both that she knows what she’s talking about and that it is valuable knowledge.

But Lady Ciri is a child. And Livi very much doesn’t want to upset her, or make her doubt her own capabilities—in addition to that being an awful thing to do to a child, Livi is quite certain that doing so would be an immediate invitation to experience the warlord’s wrath. And Lady Yen’s. And Eskel’s.

“It is a lot,” Livi acknowledges. “And some of it is not stuff anyone can know for sure. I certainly wouldn’t be able to do those kinds of calculations offhand. But knowing what kinds of things are important to consider—that’s half the battle. And when we start actual lessons, we will focus on much smaller things. But for now I am just laying out why these subjects are important and how they can be used.”

She then goes on to detail how, in this vague little example, Ciri or the warlord might reach out to the various kingdoms involved so that they could cross into their borders or even get aid in dealing with their nebulous enemy. And how the way that request—or demand—may look different depending on which party they are dealing with. “The dwarves of the Mahakam Mountains would want different assurances and exchanges than, say, King Henselt of Temeria or King Gwidon of Aedirn. Because they all have different needs and goals, and different pre-existing relationships with the White Wolf. And there are different ways to be polite to each, as they each have their own customs and manners. That is what politics is, is knowing how to talk to all those different people to get what you want.”

“Huh,” says Lady Ciri. “I didn’t know that politics could be useful.”

Livi suppresses a smile. “Indeed,” she says. “There is also internal politics, which is making sure that your own people are all working together properly, and how to deal with it when they’re not.” Actually, it’s mainly jockeying for power, but this explanation sounds better and is more tailored to what Livi knows of Lady Ciri’s sensibilities.

“Wow,” says Lady Ciri. “How do you even know all this stuff?”

“It’s what I was trained for,” Livi says. “Not military matters, but politics, and how to manage people and expenses, and the logistics and markets for food distribution.”

Both Denesle and Velen were chiefly farmland, and even if Livi had fully expected to die horribly within a few years of marrying Duke Velen, she had also expected to have to deal with the Duchy’s exports and expenses and contracts and correspondence and internal maintenance in the meantime.

“I don’t know if I can even learn all that,” Lady Ciri says dejectedly.

“Nonsense,” says Livi, with a confidence she does not feel. “If I can learn it, you can learn it.”

Of course, Livi hasn’t learned most of what she was just talking about—she was making up most of it as she went, grasping desperately at straws to relate things she did know to military matters—but that is a matter for tomorrow’s Livi to worry about.

Along with everything else.

“First lesson,” says Livi, turning over the sketched map. “And this is very important. Are you ready?”

Lady Ciri nods eagerly.

“When in doubt, make a list.”

“…That’s it?”

Livi nods. “That’s it. Lists help you organize your thoughts and priorities and information.”

“Alright,” Lady Ciri says doubtfully.

“We’ll start with one list of things you have already learned, and another list of things that I can start teaching you. It won’t be a final plan or anything, but it provides us with a starting point.”

Once Livi gets Ciri onto the topic of things she does know, the little girl lights up and starts expounding about all sorts of things. It becomes increasingly clear that she is quite intelligent, and has a solid foundation in reading and writing and—despite her evident distaste for the subject—maths. She also knows quite a lot about subjects Livi has absolutely no experience in:  anatomy and astronomy and alchemy; sorcery and survival in the wild; how to find and use plants and animals—both monstrous and mundane. Livi makes sure to praise her knowledge and abilities, as she feels quite bad about how she might have overwhelmed the girl earlier.

Thankfully, Lady Ciri actually is bright enough that flattering her is both easy and true.

It also becomes clear that Ciri doesn’t know much history, or geography, and her knowledge of politics and etiquette and logistics might as well be nonexistent. She is also incredibly distractible, and her grasp of how her lessons might tie into real-world concerns—outside of fighting or slaying monsters—is also missing. Livi is almost relieved for these gaps, because it means that there are plenty things she actually knows that she can teach Lady Ciri.

Maybe Livi won’t be entirely a useless burden in Kaer Morhen.

The only question remains as to how to actually do it.

Chapter Text

Dragonfly comes to pick her up from Lady Ciri’s chambers shortly after the sun has hit its high point, and the four of them—Lady Ciri, Lady Yen, Dragonfly, and Livi—all traipse down for the midday meal together.

Little Lady Ciri skips and chatters the whole way, jumping over half the steps then running back up so the rest of them don’t fall behind, and it is clear that the girl has a great deal of restless energy from spending the whole morning confined to a desk.

Dragonfly is, for the first time Livi has seen, not wearing her armor at all, but is instead in simply a shirt and breeches. Not even an overvest or a jacket. Her braided hair is still wet—she must have bathed just before coming up—and it lightly drips onto Livi’s shoulder as she is once again carried through the keep. She smells of pine and roses.

Livi, blushing, asks about the change in attire, and—

“Figured it’d be more comfortable for you,” Dragonfly explains. “Without all those hard edges digging in.”

It is more comfortable, and warmer too, even with the dripping braid, for Livi can now easily feel Dragonfly’s body heat surrounding her through the single layer of fabric.

Even still—“I thank you for the consideration, but would not want to deprive you of your protection nor the symbols of your rank.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dragonfly grins. “No one wants to wear armor right after getting out of the bath, especially if you haven’t cleaned it yet. It gets itchy. Hells, some of the boys don’t even want to wear shirts.”

“What.” Livi squeaks out.

“They’re harmless,” Dragonfly reassures her. “Promise.”

Livi swallows her trepidation and trusts herself to Dragonfly’s protection.

And indeed, when they arrive into that great hall Livi saw only briefly yesterday, it is overflowing with Witchers—all of them heavily-muscled and scarred men, jostling and joking with each other, rough-housing, and generally causing chaos—and a good quarter of them are just in breeches alone, chests completely bare.

Livi tries to avert her eyes, but everywhere she looks there is—skin. She finds herself curling a fist into Dragonfly’s shirt, just clinging for a long moment as she forces herself to remember that this is the custom of the keep, of this strange land and stranger people, and that here it is neither shameful nor a threat for these Witchers to be walking about, shirtless, in public.

At least the remaining Witchers are fully clothed, split perhaps half and half as to those who are fully armored, and those in similar get-ups to Dragonfly’s.

The sheer chaos of the hall, at least, means that no one is looking at Livi.

Dragonfly peels off from the other ladies and heads towards one of the long tables, weaving expertly through the crowd without jostling Livi too much.

It takes Lady Ciri a few moments to realize she has lost them, at which point the girl doubles back, dragging Lady Yennefer through the crowd.

“You should sit with me and Aunt Yen,” Lady Ciri says, pointing up towards the center of the high table as if that is a reasonable proposition.

Aunt Yen, Livi catalogues distantly. The sorceress is not Ciri’s mother then.

Even beyond the impropriety, Livi can’t help the wave of trepidation that passes through at the thought of sitting up there, exposed to all and sundry, and so near to the White Wolf besides. Yes, he had been…kind, even, yesterday, and his throne is currently empty, but Livi has no desire to impose directly upon the warlord ever again.

“I couldn’t possibly presume,” she deflects.

Lady Ciri pouts. “But—”

“Ciri,” chides Lady Yen, laying a quelling hand on the girl’s shoulder. Ciri pouts up at her in turn.

“You are welcome to join us,” says Lady Yen to Livi, “and”—she scans the table—“yes, Triss is up there as well, but if you would prefer to keep company with Dragonfly and the Cats, that’s perfectly alright.”

Livi is grateful for the out. “Dragonfly did promise to introduce me to some of her acquaintances,” she says.

“That I did,” Dragonfly cheerfully agrees.

“Ugh, fine. I guess you can sit with them,” Lady Ciri grumbles.

“I thank you for your gracious permission, my lady,” Livi says with a hint of mirth before she quite remembers to mind her tongue. It is just that Lady Ciri is so informal and familiar—not to mention so much younger than her—that it apparently only took Livi the morning to completely forget her place.

Lady Ciri narrows her eyes at her. “Are you teasing me?” she asks.

Livi meets that intense green stare. “Just a bit,” she admits.

“Hmm,” says Lady Ciri. “Maybe you’re alright. But don’t think you’re getting away scot-free. I’ll get you, even if I need to pull out a goose trick.” With that ominous pronouncement, she flounces away up to the high table, Lady Yen in tow, leaving Livi baffled and mildly terrified in her wake.

“…What does that even mean?” she asks Dragonfly, bewildered.

Dragonfly snickers a bit as she finds a clear space for the two of them at what is apparently the Cat table. She has procured a cushion from somewhere, and the kindness of it makes Livi’s eyes sting even as she murmurs her thanks.

“That child is a bit of a menace,” Dragonfly begins her explanation.

“I had gathered,” Livi says, because it would have been impossible not to with the sheer number of people who referred to her as such.

Dragonfly inclines her head. “Anyway, she’s quite fond of practical jokes and pranks. I have a feeling she probably had something planned for you during the meal.”

“…I see,” says Livi, even more grateful she had not accepted the young lady’s invitation.

“Not anything harmful,” Dragonfly stresses. “But perhaps sticky or gooey. Or mildly inconvenient or embarrassing.”

“I suppose I shall have to be on my guard, then,” says Livi, still reeling from the idea that such mischief was even conceivable for a highborn lady, let alone a de facto princess.

Although, perhaps the fact that she was in all practicalities a princess was what allowed such behavior. Royalty, after all, were given a great deal of leeway from the rules of society that so bound the rest of them.

“I think she may have driven away a few tutors in the past with her, uh, rambunctiousness,” Dragonfly admits. She’s  grabbed a trencher and is now scooping heapfuls of food upon it. “But they were both kind of stick-in-the-mud priestesses, so…”

“I should endeavor not to be a stick in the mud?” Livi tries for levity as Dragonfly sets the overfull trencher before her, although she is worried about what exactly she ought to do if—or, more likely, when—she is caught in Lady Ciri’s plans for mischief.

“No! I mean, you’re not—you’re great. You’re fine, I’m sure,” Dragonfly rushes to reassure her.

Livi raises her eyebrows at that. “Thank you,” she says, somewhat doubtfully. She regards the reams of food in front of her. “I can’t possibly eat all of this,” she says.

“Oh, right,” says Dragonfly. “Witcher portions. Well, eat what you can and leave the rest. I’ll eat it, or I’ll offload it on one of the boys. I swear, they’ve all got bottomless pits for stomachs.”

“You’re one to talk,” says a Witcher as he slings himself into the seat across from them. He is, unfortunately, one of the ones who is not wearing a shirt.

“Shut up, Cedric,” Dragonfly retorts, and tosses a roll at his head.

“That’s Cedric,” she says to Livi. “You can ignore him; he’s an ass.”

“Excuse you,” says Cedric. He’s let the roll bounce off his forehead and into his hand, and is now chewing it with his mouth open. “I’m one of your best friends, thank you very much.”

Another shirtless Witcher drapes himself across Cedric’s back. “Yes,” says this new Witcher, grinning, “but you are very much also an ass.” He winks at Livi as he steals the remainder of the roll from Cedric and shoves the whole thing in his mouth before swinging down to sit on the bench.

Livi covers her own mouth with one hand to hide her scandalized laughter, averting her eyes from the two half-naked men seated before her.

“And that’s Axel,” Dragonfly introduces. “Ax, Ced, this is Livi. The two of ‘em are partners, and they’re insufferable.”

“Aw, but you like us, really,” says Cedric.

“I suppose,” Dragonfly allows, but the fondness is clear in her voice. “I’d rather introduce you to my sisters,” she tells Livi, “but they’re both out on the Trail right now, so it’ll be a few weeks before they’re back.”

“It is a pleasure to meet any friends of Lady Dragonfly, even if they are, ah, insufferable and not sisters.” Livi does her best to match the teasing tone of the conversation while ignoring the fact that the two men are practically naked, seeming especially so now that their clothed bottom halves are hidden beneath the table and so they have only their gleaming silver medallions for any kind of cover at all.

She is so out of her depth.

“Ooh, Lady Dragonfly, is it?” Axel waggles his brows at Dragonfly, and Livi flushes down to her core, mortified. She’d completely forgotten to avoid titles, even though she knew not to.

“Shut up,” says Dragonfly again, and there’s a snap to it that wasn’t there before.

Axel raises his palms in easy surrender and starts digging into his own meal.

“Anyway,” says Dragonfly, deliberately turning away from the two men across from them to face Livi. “Where were we?”

“Ah, you were going to explain to me what exactly is meant by a goose trick,” Livi says, anxiety over the potential pitfalls of her position almost overriding her anxiety at this whole conversation.

“Oh, the goose trick.” Yet another Witcher joins them. This one, thank all the gods, is wearing a shirt, though that’s perhaps offset by the fact that he is objectively one of the prettiest men Livi has ever seen. Livi has never been prone to fits of sighing over handsome young knights the way many of her peers are—she much prefers entirely imagined romance with figures from stories or plays, thank you very much—but even she can tell that this new figure would be the subject of many a sigh at court, even if he is a Witcher.

Dragonfly introduces him as Aiden.

He grins rakishly at her. “And you’re Livi, who Dragonfly spent half the morning beating it into our heads to be nice to.”

Dragonfly sputters a bit beside her.

“Did you really?” Livi asks, feeling—she doesn’t even know what. Warm, maybe? Flustered?

Dragonfly is beetroot red. “I mean,” she says, “I—He wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Hesitantly, Livi squeezes Dragonfly’s hand in silent thanks.

“I promised to be nice to Livi, sister dearest,” Aiden drawls as he serves himself food. “Not to you.” He winks at Livi.

Despite herself, Livi giggles. “Is everyone in Kaer Morhen simply competing to be the biggest menace?” she asks.

“Well, all the Cats certainly are,” says Axel.

“Some of us are even winning.” Aiden sniffs in exaggerated haughtiness.

“Nah,” says Cedric, “Cub’s got you beat for sure.”

“Well, of course she does,” Aiden admits. “I cannot compete against the sheer ingenuity of her goose tricks.”

“Nobody has explained to me what a goose trick even is,” Livi complains.

“Ah, well, listen closely then, and I will tell you a tale of utmost chaos and rascality…”

Aiden, it turns out, is a very good storyteller, and Livi finds herself giggling along with his exaggerated narrative. A goose trick, she learns, is not one singular trick, but is instead a series of ever-escalating pranks orchestrated by the Lady Ciri, all of them goose-themed.

It started, apparently, when the young lady was only four or five, and she somehow snuck a whole flock of geese into the great hall at dinnertime, threw in a hunk of bread to rile them up, and then locked and barred all the doors.

“…There we were, the Army of the White Wolf, the Scourge of the North, three hundred Witchers strong, utterly undone by the machinations of a singular child barely yet toddling along…”

They are all in stitches by the time Aiden finishes his tale through many, many interruptions, and Livi has somehow ended up half-curled under Dragonfly’s arm, her trencher cleared and her earlier awkwardness and embarrassment almost entirely forgotten.

Aiden has also ended up on the table, crouched between serving platters.

A handkerchief swats at his ankle. “Get down, you menace, or I shan’t have anywhere to put the pastries and I’ll have to take them somewhere else.”

Livi is startled to see Julita the baker’s apprentice from this morning. She’d been so enraptured that she hadn’t noticed the other woman’s approach at all.

Julita’s threat is evidently enough to send Aiden scrambling for the bench, and Julita sets a large basket on the table in his place. Immediately, a hoard of Witchers dive for it, and Livi rears back into Dragonfly for shelter from the onslaught.

“Here,” Julita fishes a pastry out of her apron pocket and hands it to Livi. “It’s apricot. I saved it for you.”

“Witchers can be…a bit much,” she adds, eyeing the minor skirmish taking place before them.

Indeed, Livi’s heart is still racing in her throat at the casual violence—although it does not seem as if anyone is actually getting hurt—mere feet away. It is only Dragonfly’s arm around her that has kept her from feeling completely overwhelmed at the scene.

Livi is absurdly touched at Julita’s thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” she says, then has to clear her throat and try again because it came out so choked. “That’s so kind of you.”

Julita just smiles. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen,” she says, and bustles off, obviously still working.

Dragonfly, Livi notices, has foregone the pastry scrummage because she is sheltering Livi from the carnage, and so Livi splits her gifted pastry in two and hands half of it to the Witcher.

“You really don’t have to,” Dragonfly says.

“Think of it as a token of my gratitude,” Livi says, “for your most gallant protection of my person.”

“Oh,” says Dragonfly softly. “Alright then.”

Still tucked into Dragonfly’s side as Witchers jostle all around her, her heartbeat finally calming down, Livi takes a bite of the pastry—warm and sweet and flaky with just a hint of tartness—and feels, for the first time in…perhaps ever, very welcome indeed.

Despite how utterly much has happened since she woke up, the day is scarcely half over yet.

As the hall starts to clear after lunch, Triss wanders over them.

“Livi,” she greets, “how are you settling in?”

“Very well, thank you,” Livi says. “Everyone has been the very soul of kindness to me.”

Triss quirks an eyebrow at the still somewhat rowdy mess of men around them, but doesn’t comment. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says instead. “I hear from Yen that you’re going to be tutoring Ciri in the mornings?”

“Yes, indeed,” says Livi. “We had our first session just before this.”

“Wonderful! Since your mornings are now occupied, I’d be much obliged if you would join me in my stillroom in the afternoons—I could use an assistant, and we can take the time to chat.”

“I would be honored,” Livi says, greatly heartened by the fact that Triss evidently means to keep her promise to protect Livi and find her a place and occupation here.

“Perfect. We’ll start tomorrow, though, I think. You still need to be measured for clothes, and I know Eskel wanted to talk with you at some point about matters involving your escort.”

“Oh,” says Livi, swallowing against sudden dread. “Of course. I am at his disposal.”

“Hm,” says Triss. “Clothes first.”

And so Livi finds herself being cheerfully measured by a plump woman named Aniela, who is indeed the Mistress of the Wardrobe for the whole keep.

“I don’t have any dresses in your size on hand,” Mistress Aniela admits. “There aren’t that many that wear dresses in the keep—honestly, it’s just the sorceresses. I can have some made, but it’ll be a while. In the meantime I’ve got skirts and trousers, whichever you prefer.”

“The skirts are gracious plenty, Mistress,” Livi says. “Please do not trouble yourself to make new dresses solely on my account. I should—very much like to fit in to the customs of the keep.”

Mistress Aniela laughs merrily. “It’s no trouble, lass, but I’ll hold off on sewing any dresses for now. Though if you really want to wear what everyone else in the keep is wearing, I’d go for a pair of trousers too.”

Mistress Aniela gives her a curtsy, and Livi sees that what she had taken for a hiked-up red skirt is in actuality a very baggy pair of trousers gathered at the mid-calf before being stuffed into her boots.

Livi swallows. “Alright,” she says, heart pounding at the utter scandal it would be if anyone back home were to hear of this. Though she is already scandal enough simply by being here; she can hardly make her reputation any worse than it already must be, sent as she was for—scandalous and ruinous purposes.

And she does want to make this work, to be accepted in Kaer Morhen. So if that means adapting to half-naked Witchers, and menacing princesses, and, and trousers, then so be it.

“I bow to your better judgement,” she tells Mistress Aniela. “Though I admit I have never worn trousers before. Is there some trick to it, or is it as straightforward as it appears?”

“Certainly it’s more straightforward than a noble lady’s dresses,” Mistress Aniela says. “Though there’s some things you might not expect if you’re used to wearing skirts.”

What follows is an actually quite interesting discussion about cut, and seam allowance, how exactly to tie the hose that are worn with the baggier form of trousers, where her belt should sit, how pockets work when you don’t have a skirt to hide them in, and how to arrange her shirts and stays.

Livi does her best to ask intelligent questions and flatter the seamstress’s skill and knowledge without being obsequious or grating—an easy task, thank the gods, as Mistress Aniela obviously knows exactly what she is doing.

Her clothes will almost all need to be hemmed or taken in; Livi is already slim and small by Redanian standards, and she is feeling quite minuscule in Kaer Morhen, where the women are all either warriors, or sorceresses, or servants with the hard musculature earned from manual labor.

Mistress Aniela assures her that she’ll have at least a full outfit or two ready in time for tomorrow, and, in addition to three skirts, all wool in different colors, and three pairs of trousers—one green in the baggy style Mistress Aniela is sporting; one brown that gathers at the knee; and one in dark gray that is fitted all the way up her leg, which Livi is not sure she will be able to summon the courage to actually wear—the wardrobe mistress provides her with shirts, and shoes, and stays, and scarves, and socks. Underthings and overvests and bodices. Belts and buckles and bags. Coats and cloaks of different weights.

They are none of them particularly fancy, and she would certainly be embarrassed to wear such plain and practical things in Tretegor, but there are so many things—an entire wardrobe—and each one is chosen for her by Mistress Aniela with such care and thought for her needs, that Livi finds herself quite overwhelmed by the kindness.

Still, overthanking someone is just as annoying and unmannerly as not thanking them at all, so Livi does her best to make her appreciation known without devolving into incoherent babbling.

And so it is that Livi’s mind at least is occupied all the way until she finds herself borne back to the study where she first met the White Wolf.

Chapter Text

Upon her entrance to the study, Livi is accompanied by Dragonfly, of course, and also by Triss, who has stayed all throughout her fittings. When they arrive, there is a small crowd already gathered in the room, although thankfully there are fewer of them now than there were yesterday.

Livi is surprised to realize that she recognizes almost everyone. There is—terrifyingly—the White Wolf himself, and Eskel, and Lady Yennefer. The only one whom she does not know is the older Witcher, with weathered skin and silvered hair. He had been there yesterday, Livi recalls, but had left the room at her mortifying breakdown before they were ever introduced.

Eskel draws her a chair as soon as they enter, and Livi smiles gratefully at him and immediately bobs in as deep  of curtsy as she can to the White Wolf from her seated position.

The warlord inclines his head, and Livi straightens back up, as gathered as she can be.

The rest of the group is scattered about the room, some seated and some standing. Dragonfly takes up a position at Livi’s shoulder, guarding her back.

“So,” says Eskel. He is one of the ones seated at the large, map-covered table, and he has a sheaf of papers before him. “I think you’ve met everybody except Vesemir, is that right?”

“Yes, indeed,” says Livi, and bobs briefly towards the older Witcher who must be Vesemir. “It is an honor to meet you.”

He nods in turn, and that’s introductions done.

“I am sorry to put you on the spot like this immediately, Livi,” says Eskel, and it is evident from the way everyone is angled towards him that he—not the White Wolf—is the one running this meeting. “Especially when you have not yet had a chance to settle in or get your bearings, but due to the, uh, nature of your arrival at the keep, and the behavior of the men who brought you here, we have some questions that likely only you can answer.”

Livi nods, face carefully composed. “I am happy to answer any questions you desire, m—” It is harder, she realizes, to avoid ‘my lording’ someone when she is nervous. “I am happy to answer.”

Eskel nods. “Given the delicate nature of the inquiry,” he says, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I could kick everybody else out again if you want, or even just give Triss a list of questions and have her report back, though we might have to do a bit of back and forth, and everybody currently in the room will be informed of what you say.”

Livi nods to show she understands, though she can hardly believe the offer. She cannot imagine King Vizimir—or the Duke von Everec, who as Prime Minister would be closest to Eskel’s equivalent in Redania—ever even considering making such an allowance for anyone, let alone an unallied girl entirely within their power.

 “I am honored by your concern,” she says, picking though each word with care. “And I admit I was—overwhelmed, yesterday. But I am quite capable of answering your questions and would prefer not to inconvenience anybody or…drag it out. And I know that especially in matters of delicacy or controversy, it is often most useful to hear things from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, as well as to have multiple perspectives in the room.”

She also admits, at least in the privacy of her own head, that she is entirely unsure of just what the issue is. She understands that the White Wolf was…displeased by being given her person as tribute, but Triss had indicated that this conversation is to be about the guards who escorted her here. She can scarcely believe that a king—or an emperor, as the warlord is more and more becoming—would concern himself with the doings of such lowly people.

And she is also unclear as to what issue there might be to discuss about them in the first place. They escorted her to Kaer Morhen as per King Vizimir’s orders. To her knowledge, the Witchers have never taken issue with any of the other guards or envoys bringing them tribute. What makes this different? Is it simply because they disapprove of her? Surely that has nothing to do with the guards, though…

“Alright,” says Eskel. “If you change your mind, even halfway through, that’s fine. Just say the word.”

Livi nods, though she can’t imagine any scenario in which she would actually do so.

“Also,” says Eskel, “your position here in Kaer Morhen is safe. You’re not in any trouble, and nothing you say or admit to will change that, understand?”

Not really. “That must depend on what I admit to, no?” she asks. “If I say I have done something truly horrible by Witcher standards—and perhaps I have; I have no idea what your standards actually are—then surely such sureties would be void?”

It is a dangerous question, to be sure, but—everyone she has met so far in this keep has valued bluntness.

It is better to know, she tells herself. It is better to test the temperature now and be burned—even badly—than to blindly stick her whole head in the fire and hope for the best.

And Livi had tried to run. She is certain they already know it—she had practically confessed as much to Triss, and her injuries are very telling—but no one has acknowledged it outright yet, and that had been no mere disobeying of her father’s decree. That had been disobeying the king’s own orders. That had been treason.

No one looks kindly upon traitors. Even if they are traitors unto your enemies. And, despite the hostilities, Redania is not an officially declared enemy of the White Wolf.

So therefore her treason must be all the more offensive, being as it was both to a potential ally, and also having intended to deprive the White Wolf himself of his given due.

Eskel huffs, a hint of a smile on his scarred face. “I see the problem,” he says. “Alright, let me think.”

He leans back in his chair, regards her with those eerie amber eyes. “Are you planning on assassinating anybody in the keep?”

“What?” says Livi. “No!”

“Do you intend to harm Ciri?”

“No, of course not!”

“Do you intend to harm anyone in Kaer Morhen?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to spy on us or send state secrets to anyone outside the keep?”

“No,” Livi says, “although I would like to inform my friends of my safe arrival and my—good treatment here.”

“That’s fine,” says Eskel.

“She’s already asked if I would read over her letters to avoid any unwitting secrets getting out,” Lady Yen chimes in from the corner. “And I agreed.”

“Huh,” says Eskel. “Alright. Have you ever tortured or killed anyone for your own greed or gratification?”

“No!”

Eskel nods and looks around the room. “Anyone else have something that would disqualify her from taking sanctuary here?”

Sanctuary. Livi can’t help but feel her heart soar at the term, can scarcely believe it might be real.

“Nothing that would apply to her,” says Triss.

Lady Yen shakes her head, as does Vesemir. To Livi’s surprise, Eskel specifically raises his eyebrows in question towards Dragonfly, whom Livi thought was here merely as her guard and escort, as she is obviously not a member of the…small council? Is that what this is?

Dragonfly also seems slightly taken off guard to be asked, but she too shakes her head.

That leaves only the White Wolf who has yet to weigh in. His gaze is heavy upon her, and his brow furrowed.

“Geralt?” Eskel prompts, when the warlord makes no move answer his query either way.

Still, he is silent and unmoving for several long moments.

“Do you,” says the warlord, in a low rumble, “harbor hatred in your heart for non-human people?”

“I—no?” says Livi, pinned by his golden gaze. His stone-still nonreaction seems to demand more of an answer.

“I—I have never truly considered the matter, my lord,” she confesses, “but I—I cannot imagine hating anyone who has never done me any harm. And I—do not know, whether, well, whether you as Witchers consider yourselves human or not, but—you have all treated me so kindly, in the time I have been—have been here, and so I am—I was, I was...frightened, at first, but now I feel grateful, truly. Not—not hateful.”

She has never even met any other non-humans to have any thoughts or feelings about them.

“Hm.” The White Wolf inclines his head, just a fraction of a motion, and slowly blinks. Then he tips his head at Eskel in a subtle sign she cannot possibly fathom the meaning of.

“Well, there you go,” says Eskel. “Nothing you admit or confess to will be monstrous by Witcher standards, and so you won’t be in trouble or anything for it.”

Livi goggles at him. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” says Eskel. “That’s it.”

“And you’re just going to take my word for it?” she asks. “I could be lying.”

Not about—well, most of it. But if she were a spy or an assassin, surely she would also be a good liar.

But Eskel just shakes his head. “Witchers can smell lies,” he says.

“…What.”

“Witchers can smell lies,” he repeats. “And emotions. Comes in handy. It’s why we don’t have spies; I know that pisses off a lot of nobles, that they can’t get any spies in the keep. But fear, lies, guilt—it tends to reek.”

“Oh,” says Livi. “Oh. That’s—“

Well. It’s certainly something.

“Interesting,” she finishes weakly.

“Mm. You’ve been remarkably truthful since you came here,” Eskel adds cheerfully. “Especially compared to the normal bullshit nobles tend to spin. I mean, obviously you’re not actually happy to answer our questions, but besides that…I don’t think you’ve said any falsehoods.”

Livi pales a bit. “Such blandishments of speech count as lies?”

“Anything where you don’t believe what you’re saying. I don’t entirely understand it—it’s something to do with magic.”

“An interesting question for a later time,” Lady Triss comments.

Livi nods. “I shall do my utmost to avoid any falsehoods, then, although I…am not used to it, and may slip up entirely on accident.”

Lady Yen laughs. “That’s certainly the truth, coming from court,” she says. “We won’t hold it against you, dove, as long as you’re not actively trying to mislead us.”

“Thank you,” says Livi.

Then comes the actual interrogation. Mainly, they want to know the same information that she had already shared with Triss: Why was she sent to Kaer Morhen? What had Redania expected her to do? How had they expected her to be treated? Who was responsible for sending her north?

It is easier to answer calmly and accurately now when she has already broken down and sobbed all over Triss.

Livi falls into a rhythm of answering, detached, as if she is talking about someone else. It is easier than thinking of such things applying to her, even with the assurance she now has that they will not.

“You did not volunteer.”

“I—no.” Truthful, she reminds herself. They will know if you lie. So she doesn’t patter about how it is nevertheless an honor to be chosen and how she is eager to do her duty.

It still feels deeply wrong not to even try to spin it. Not to mention rude.

But the Witchers truly seem to take no offense.

“Why you in particular, then?” Eskel asks.

“…I don’t know,” Livi has to admit.

“Any guesses?”

That is another thing weird about this whole interview. Eskel—and presumably, by extension, the rest of the room, including the White Wolf—seem to be exceedingly interested in her own speculations and reasonings, and treat her silly thoughts as information of value in and of themselves.

So, Livi hazards a guess. “I was an eligible lady of marriageable age without any firm betrothal contract, and I have been told that I am quite, ah, pleasing to look at, and…I suppose that my father decided that this would be more beneficial than marrying me off. For one thing, in sending me here, he had no need to supply a dowry—the king furnished all the clothes and tribute. That would have been a large burden on Denesle, which is not a particularly rich domain. I am sure there must have also been some further agreement between my father and the king, but as to its details I have no idea. Favorable supply contracts, perhaps? Plus, it would have demonstrated his loyalty and dedication to the crown, to sacrifice a daughter for the good of the realm.”

Her words are met with silence throughout the room.

“That’s fucking twisted,” says Dragonfly.

Livi grimaces. “He was doing his duty.”

“Your own father sold you to be...used, fully believing you might die from it, just so he could save some money, and he’ll be praised for it?” Vesemir scoffs. “‘Fucking twisted’ is the nicest thing you could say about that.”

“Agreed,” says Eskel.

“He may have had other reasons,” Livi admits, uncomfortable at this criticism. Yes, she is angry with her father, but…well, that is what fathers do, is it not? They choose the most favorable marriage contract on offer, then hand their daughters over to their husbands who will do what they will.

“Reasons that would justify doing something like this?” Eskel asks, disbelieving.

Livi clasps her hands in her lap. “My father is well aware that I can be…troublesome and willful. I believe he saw it an opportunity to be rid of me before I brought shame down upon our house by, well, doing something drastic.”

“Something drastic.”

Livi can feel her cheeks flush, but forces herself to confess—this is hardly the worst of her sins, and if the Witchers can smell lies…

“There had been talks of marriage with…a man I very much did not wish to marry. I was planning to run away and try to take sanctuary at a convent in Caingorn. It would have seriously disgraced Denesle if I did so. Not only was my, ah, potential intended extremely powerful and favored of the crown, but others may have pulled out of contracts with Denesle, untrusting of doing business with a man who could not control his daughter. I—the margins were quite thin, especially with all the refugees flooding in from conquered Redania, and…people could have starved, upon the consequences of my refusal to do my duty.”

She stares miserably at the floor, because she had known all that, and she had still been planning to run. And then she had courted all those same problems again, tenfold, by attempting to run from the White Wolf. Perhaps it makes her terrible and faithless and horribly selfish, but…Livi had been willing to ruin her family name, to ruin the lives and livelihoods of any number of other people, all to avoid being personally subject to a powerful man’s perverted lusts.

“That is not your duty,” says Triss, quiet but firm. “Sacrificing yourself to be brutalized by some…monster of a man, because of politics, that is not right, and no one should have forced you to think it was.”

Livi blinks rapidly. She can’t—she can’t respond to Triss and still keep her composure.

“I think—my father must have discovered my preparations and volunteered me,” she says instead. “I believe it was his doing as well, not the king’s, that saw me so…ill-equipped in the practicalities needed for a long journey. I cannot see any reason for it beyond, well, limiting my ability to flee, and of those involved with the decision, only my father knew me well enough to consider it a possibility.”

Eskel nods slowly, letting out a long, slow breath all the while. “You could still go to a monastery if you wish it,” he says. “In Caingorn or in Kaedwen—we can find somewhere once you’re healed—if you’d be more comfortable there. I know it can’t be easy for you, surrounded by Witchers here.”

Livi takes a breath, feeling slightly dizzy. “I thank you for the offer,” she says, “but…I have no legitimate vocation or calling to the cloth. It was only desperation that would have seen me there, and everyone here has been so—it is very strange to me, yes, the customs of this keep, but I would continue trying to make a place for myself here, as long as you will have me.”

She can hardly believe her own daring, but it is the truth. It has scarcely yet been a day, and already Livi has found herself quite fond of several people in the keep, and...scared, yes, but also—excited by the possibilities of living here.

“Alright,” says Eskel. “And we’re happy to have you for as long as you’ll stay. Ciri, especially, seems quite taken.”

“She is a delightful child,” says Livi.

“That she is,” Eskel agrees with a smile. “Just know the option is there, if it gets to be too much.”

“Alright,” Livi agrees, though—impossible as it might have seemed to think even yesterday—she doubts she’ll be taking him up on it.

The questions continue.

Something in one of her answers sparks a an intense debate between the council members. Livi lets it wash over her, regathers herself as the argument rages on.

“But why did they think that sending us a…sacrifice was at all acceptable?” Vesemir growls at one point.

“Because nobles are horrible?” Eskel suggests with an air of defeated finality.

“If I may, my lords?” Livi scarcely recognizes her own voice interjecting. She cannot say what insanity compels her to speak now, except that she has somehow become accustomed over the course of this conversation to being listened to. It is…the subject matter is incredibly harrowing, but the respect her thoughts have been afforded—it is heady, and it must have gone to her head.

Eskel motions for her to speak.

“I was not there when the decision was made, and so I cannot speak precisely to King Vizimir's reasoning, but…rumor in Redania paints the White Wolf’s desires as both terrible and incomprehensible. We—it is not known, my lords, what you want from us, and so…people guess the worst.”

“What I want,” the White Wolf growls—it is the first time he has spoken in this meeting—“is for them to stop being horrible. I was fucking clear about that when I cut off the king of Kaedwen’s head. He was raping women, so I made him stop. How the hell does that translate to me getting a gods-damned rape sacrifice?” He runs a jerky hand through his moon-white hair.

Livi swallows at his intensity, and—the language, but, “I don’t know how it happened, my lord,” she says. “But the fact of the matter is that there must have been a…miscommunication somewhere.” She swallows.

“A miscommunication.” Vesemir snorts.

“That’s certainly a very diplomatic way of putting it,” Lady Yen mutters.

The White Wolf and Eskel are both studying her. She does her best not to quail under their combined gaze.

“I do not know what you may have communicated in confidence to the monarchs of the continent, my lord,” she begins. “And I am not the most informed when it comes to the facts of your conquest. But I am not a generally uninformed person, either.”

What she is about to say would be unthinkable at court—a criticism, no matter how oblique, of royal policy from someone in her position?—and the White Wolf is still terrifying and unreadable, but—

But. Eskel is nodding at her encouragingly, and if she can stop even one more girl from being put through the same ordeal that she has, or worse…

“To the vast majority of people outside your empire, my lord,” she says, addressing the White Wolf though she dares not look straight at him, “your motives are assumed to be solely for power or personal gain. You have conquered Kaedwen and Caingorn and the top half of Aedirn and two-thirds of Redania, and because your motivations as you have told them to me are not widely circulated, what else are people to believe other than that you desire to have absolute power over the peoples and lands you have conquered and therefore act to appease you accordingly? If you do not wish to receive tribute such as…such as myself, then it may be advisable to make it explicitly clear that such forms of tribute are unacceptable.”

“Hm,” says the White Wolf.

“That,” says Eskel, “sounds eminently doable. How would you suggest sending such a message?”

Livi blinks. “How would I do it, my lord?”

“Well, obviously the ways we’ve done it haven’t worked. So, yeah. You speak noble. What would you do?”

Livi takes a breath. If it hasn’t occurred to them yet, she doesn’t want to tell them the obvious option, but—Witchers can smell lies.

“Well,” she hedges. “There are several different methods, I am sure. You could send a message to King Vizimir expressing your displeasure, perhaps also naming and demanding an acceptable form of tribute from Redania to make up for the insult. The message’s wording, and how you send it, will of course affect its impact upon the court—a private missive sent by bird or messenger would be taken less seriously than one delivered by a courtier or an ambassador before the whole court, or one brought by a troupe of Witchers.”

“Although,” she muses, “sending multiple Witchers into Tretegor may be taken as a resumption of hostilities, and so must be arranged in advance if you wish not to…startle the court.”

“Naming acceptable tribute is probably a good idea anyway,” Eskel muses. “We’ve got all kinds of expensive but useless stuff now. If they’re gonna send things, it might as well be things we can use.”

“Hm,” says the White Wolf.

Livi nods at Eskel. “Sending messages to all the kingdoms of the north—both your vassals and your neighbors—would also serve to spread your message faster and make it impossible for King Vizimir to cover up your displeasure. You might also hire heralds to announce your motivations in towns all across the land, though it doesn’t make much sense to do that solely for this one matter—instead, perhaps something more comprehensive about the, ah, moral standards men are expected to keep to in the Wolflands? And what the consequences will be for breaking such standards. Though, in effect that would be akin to writing and publishing a whole new set of laws, and so would be a much longer-term project…”

She trails off, a bit embarrassed at how rambling and incoherent her thoughts have become.

“That’s not a bad idea either,” Eskel mutters. “Although you’re right that it’s outside the scope of immediate action.”

“What would be the most efficient way?” asks the White Wolf.

Livi forces a polite smile on her face. “The most efficient way, my lord?” she asks.

“Mm,” he says. “Easiest and fastest way to let them know this is not acceptable, and make them stop.”

Livi should equivocate. She should hem and haw and offer twenty more solutions to the problem.

But the White Wolf has caught her in his gaze, those golden eyes hooking into her soul, and it is the truth that leaves her lips. “The most efficient way would be to definitively reject the tribute.”

“What, send you back to those bastards?” says Eskel.

“Or my corpse,” Livi whispers. She can’t look away from the White Wolf’s terrible stare. She swallows, licks her lips. “The corpse would be more effective.”

The White Wolf growls, a low, threatening rumble. “Absolutely not,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Eskel. “We’re not doing that.”

“Never in a million years,” chimes in Triss.

There’s a round of agreement from all throughout the room. Lady Yen, and Dragonfly, and even Vesemir.

Livi rapidly blinks back tears, and finally, finally, is able to tear away her eyes from the White Wolf’s.

She takes a few deep breaths, staring at the carpet. Dragonfly squeezes her shoulder as she collects herself.

“I hate to be the one to point this out,” Lady Yen drawls, “but we can still send back a corpse that isn’t Livi’s.”

“What,” says Triss, “you want to glamour some poor sod’s body to look like her? That seems…wildly impractical and unlikely to hold up.”

“No, I mean she was dragged here by six men and they’re all still here. We could send back six corpses, even. That’s very intimidating.”

“Someone would need to carry them,” Vesemir points out.

Lady Yen scoffs. “I’ll portal them directly into the throne room. If I get Istredd and Lytta to help, we can easily break through whatever wards Vizimir’s pet mages have set up.”

Blood is rushing in Livi’s ears as they casually discuss the murder of six men. She doesn’t—she doesn’t even know if she disagrees with this course of action. She certainly wouldn’t weep if Grol were to die, nor Klemens. She may even be glad of their deaths.

But Captain Siert? Peet?

Can she even ask for mercy on their behalves? Dare she? When her own life has only just been spared? When it seems that the choice is between killing her guards or killing her self?

Does she even want to?

But also, however much those men may have scared her, in the end, they didn’t actually do anything. Do they deserve to be killed just to send some message between kings?

Could she live with herself if she allowed a boy her own age—a boy who had done his best to be kind to her, even if his kindness was utterly ineffective—to be killed because of her cowardice?

Livi takes a deep breath and waits for a place in the conversation where she can interject. “I must point out that executing the guards is akin in many ways to shooting the messenger—they did not engineer this situation, and doing so may stop any future communications to Kaer Morhen.”

“Good,” snorts Vesemir. “We don’t want ‘em.”

“No, no—she has a point,” says Lady Yen, flapping a hand. Livi is a bit startled by her rapid turnaround. “We need to be clear that we’re not just savages killing people with no cause. That’s part of the whole reason we’re in this mess.”

“Rape is illegal,” Eskel points out. “It’s a capital offense.”

Livi flinches a bit at his bluntness. “They didn’t—nothing happened,” she says.

“Attempting rape is also a crime in Wolflands,” Triss adds, gently but still terrible.

“Nothing happened,” Livi says again. She doesn’t know if she’s defending the men or herself. The rug blurs in her vision.

She feels Dragonfly’s hand reach to grab her own, and she grips it back, desperate and too-tight.

“Even laying aside what did or didn’t happen on the road,” says Eskel, “we questioned the men who brought you here, and every last one of them knew you were unwilling. To a man.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t even know how to feel about that. Still, Livi’s stomach squirms at this confirmation of the guards’ fate. She knows what questioning means, especially when applied to commoners or enemy soldiers, and it is not nearly as pleasant as her own horrible interrogation is shaping up to be.

She swallows, gathers her courage. “I would not wish any man further tortured on my account,” she says. “Even if…”

Eskel nods, slowly. “Witchers don’t torture,” he says.

“Then how—?”

“We have ways of magically compelling a person to tell the truth.”

Well. That is terrifying. Livi supposes it’s better than torture? Probably?

She still shudders at the thought of being ‘magically compelled’ to do anything, even if it is something as simple as speaking the truth. There’s no fighting back against magic.

“I see,” says Livi, careful not to let any of these thoughts cross her face—although, is there even a point to that, if the Witchers can smell what she is feeling?

Later.

“When questioned, two of the men admitted to having forced women in the past,” Eskel adds. “Multiple times.”

Livi finds herself entirely unsurprised at that news. If anything, she is shocked that it was only two of them.

“Which two?” she asks.

“The one called Klemens,” says Eskel. “And the one called Grol.”

Livi nods. Those two had certainly been the boldest. “Where?” she asks.

“Where?” Eskel repeats. “Why does that matter?”

“Well,” she winces a bit, “the court would be more understanding of the White Wolf executing these men if such crimes took place in the Wolflands. Even if the lands were not yet then the Wolflands.”

“What,” says Eskel.

Livi does her best to explain. “If the crimes took place in the Wolflands—or I suppose also if the victims at any point have been subjects of the White Wolf—then executing the perpetrators will be seen as the White Wolf exercising rightful jurisdiction over his own sovereign lands and bringing justice for his own subjects.” 

“But if the crimes took place in…Tretegor, say,” she continues, “then it would almost certainly be seen as an attempted infringement upon King Vizimir’s right to rule his own domain. And that would send a very different message. One that is much more, ah, polemic.”

 “That’s such bullshit,” Eskel mutters, massaging his temples.

“That’s politics,” says Triss, wry.

“It would be justice for them to be executed for having committed such crimes,” says Livi, and her face is smooth and hard even if her heart is pounding and her fingers are crushing Dragonfly’s hand. She feels powerful and terrified and vindicated and sick to her stomach. “I just—you asked for the political implications.”

“So I did,” Eskel easily agrees. “And I didn’t actually ask them for specific names and places, but I suppose I can do that after we break.”

“I don’t care,” says the White Wolf, low and quiet. “They raped multiple people; they’re currently on my land. They die.”

Livi startles and her skin prickles with gooseflesh. She had somehow forgotten the White Wolf’s presence. She quickly ducks her head. “As you will, my lord,” she murmurs, trying not to tremble.

She is not alone in her obeisance. A whisper of acquiescence and fervently assured obedience rumbles through the room.

“Might as well question them again anyway for names and places to see if we can get away with the jurisdiction thing,” Eskel points out. “Odds are good on that actually, disgusting as that may be: they’re both traveling soldiers and repeat offenders, and even if they’d never left Redania before this, two-thirds of Redania is ours.”

“Fine,” says the White Wolf.

“Alright.” Eskel makes a note on one of his papers. “Places, times, names, subjecthood. Anything else in particular we need to know about their crimes that those fuckers in Redania would care about?” he asks her.

Livi takes a moment to consider, still a bit rattled from the White Wolf’s pronouncement and the rapid shift back to practicalities. “Not that I can think of at the moment,” she says. “Although—” she cuts herself off.

“Although?” Eskel prompts.

Livi glances at the White Wolf. He is boring his gaze into the side of Eskel’s head, seemingly not focused on her at all. She knows better than to trust that, but…

“It is not so much a political consideration as a, um, personal favor?” she cringes back a bit at her own words.

“Alright, shoot,” Eskel encourages her.

Livi takes a shaky breath. “If you do discover, ah, relevant specifics…I would ask that you not publish the names of their, um, victims in the pronouncements of their crimes. But perhaps instead only identify them as being of so-and-so place, or as a subject of the White Wolf if such proves to be the case?”

Triss sucks in a harsh breath of air. “Definitely do that,” she tells Eskel. “There’s no good can come in ruining some poor girls’ reputations for the whole world to see.”

“Or in painting targets on their backs, for any who might be displeased at the White Wolf’s response,” Lady Yen adds.

Eskel nods. “We can sort out the exact wording after we know the facts, but otherwise I think that’s those two done and decided on.”

“I can come up with something suitably terrifying for the missive,” Lady Yen volunteers. Oliwia doesn’t doubt her.

“And I can ensure that it follows all the legal trappings,” Triss adds.

“Spoilsport.” Lady Yen pouts.

Triss rolls her eyes. “Legal writing can be plenty terrifying, as well you know,” she says.

The White Wolf snorts.

Livi is quite startled to hear such a…mundane sound from the warlord.

Triss says, “It has been nice, this past decade and a half, ignoring all the pomp and politics of the outside world. But, as I have been so skillfully reminded,”—she smiles briefly at Livi—“those things do actually have their place and purpose. I’m a bit rusty, but I’m sure I can come up with some suitably polished and politic phrasing even if the legalities aren’t all there.”

“Fine, fine.” Lady Yen waves a lazy hand in the air. “We’ll write it together then.”

“Great. Now, the other four men,” says Eskel, calling them all back to focus. “Unless you specifically want him dead, Livi, I’m not comfortable killing the youngest one.”

“Peet,” says Livi, nonsensically.

“Mm,” says Eskel. “Peet.”

“I…no,” she says, unexpectedly feeling a great deal of relief that she wouldn’t have to speak up in his defense. “I don’t want him dead. He was…kind to me. Or, he tried to be.”

“Right, done then. Peet goes free—any objections?”

Livi shakes her head.

“He’s young, you said?” asks Vesemir. “How young?”

“Trainee age,” says Eskel. “Sixteen.”

Vesmir sighs. “Would they take it out on him, if we return him to Redania with the corpses of his companions and a message of the Wolf’s displeasure?”

The whole room looks to Livi as if she is an expert on the subject. Which, she supposes, in this company she is. Or she is supposed to be.

“I don’t know,” she says, because that is the truth. “Perhaps.”

There are some looks and subtle motions exchanged all across the room that she can’t quite interpret.

“Fine,” says Eskel. “I suppose we could offer him the option to stay.”

Livi’s heart spikes in her breast. It is not…she does not want Peet dead. She had even been prepared to speak in his defense. But the thought of seeing him again, of living in the same place…better him than any of the others, she supposes.

“Somewhere else in the Wolflands,” Eskel adds, as if it’s a natural continuation of his sentence. As if she didn’t see the way his eyes darted towards her and then away at the first instant of her panic. “Kaedwen, maybe.”

Witchers can smell emotion, she reminds herself, with no small amount of…well, she would probably need a Witcher to tell her just what she is feeling at the moment, because it’s all so muddled and so much.

 “Then there’s the other three,” Eskel is saying as Livi’s pulse calms down.

“Captain Siert…didn’t wish to see me dishonored, I believe,” says Livi. “He spoke against it, even. After I…”

She trails off. It is hardly a rousing defense, but…she cannot muster one of those, she doesn’t think.

She is exhausted.

“Alright,” says Eskel. “You were the one he wronged. I will say that dragging someone, a young girl, so obviously unwilling across the continent to be a…sacrifice is monstrous in and of itself. And he was the one in charge of the rest of them.”

“He was ordered to do so by his king. He could not refuse.”

“He could have,” says Eskel. “Any of them could have. There just might have been consequences. But if you don’t want him killed for it, then he won’t be killed.”

Livi shrugs and tries to summon a response. Maybe she should feel powerful, with a man’s life in her hands. She did, a bit, earlier, with Klemens and Grol. But now she’s just tired.

“I don’t want him dead,” she finally manages to say somewhat tonelessly.

“Hm,” says the White Wolf. Livi has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “And the other two?”

It’s not as easy to say it again. Because Captain Siert had at least tried to put a stop to—to what they would have done. The other two…well. They had laughed.

They had stood over her in the dark while she was pinned down and Grol and Klemens joked around about their very serious intentions to rape her, and they had laughed.

But they also hadn’t actually done anything.

She wasn’t…nothing had happened.

They hadn’t even touched her, then.

“Janek and Aron.” Eskel supplies their names when Livi is silent. “Neither of them have forced anyone in the past, although—sorry, Livi—they both confessed they were intending to, uh, go along with it when…”

Livi must be hurting Dragonfly with how tight she is gripping the Witcher’s hand, but she can’t get herself to relax even the tiniest fraction. “I thought as much,” Livi says, soft and contained and far away from herself. “Still, I do not know if it is justice to execute two men for a crime they only contemplated committing.”

“They only didn’t because you stopped them,” Triss points out.

“Whatever they may have intended, they didn’t do anything. Nothing actually happened.”

She’s not quite sure why she’s so insistent upon that fact.

No, that’s a lie. She does know: as long as it remains clear that nothing happened, then Livi still has her reputation intact, and therefore her value. Even if the Witchers do not seem to estimate her worth using the same scales she is used to, Livi cannot give that up. It is all she has left.

“I think…” What does she even think? She doesn’t know. She tries to reason it out. “Executing a man for forcing himself upon someone, that is justice. And of course you have the right to do as you will, your majesty. But. Executing the sworn soldiers of a foreign monarch, who were acting under that monarch’s orders and were carrying out legitimate business in your lands, who did not actually commit any crime against you or your subjects, but only thought about it…”

Well, when she lays it out like that, the implications become clear. “The rest of the world does not have easy access to such magics as to compel the truth of someone’s thoughts. And moreover, thoughts are not crimes. I think…I think killing them would be taken as a declaration of war. Or at least a resumption of hostilities. Unless you came up with some suitable excuse of an actual crime to justify their deaths.”

“No lying,” says the White Wolf.

“Of course not, my lord.”

Eskel huffs out a tired breath of air. “Gods, what a mess,” he mutters.

The White Wolf is studying her. She can feel his unnatural gaze intense upon her face, though she doesn’t move her own eyes from where they’ve decided to focus on a random point on the wall. She is too tired and far away to even be scared anymore.

“Earlier,” says the White Wolf, measuring out each word like it’s his last, “you said that killing you would be…an understandable response. But killing the soldiers would be seen as an act of war. Why?”

Livi blinks, so startled by the question that she barely stops herself from goggling at the White Wolf. “Because I am yours, my lord,” she answers, baffled that this fundamental concept needs explaining. “King Vizimir gave me unto you, to do with as you will. But he did not give you the soldiers.”

“Or at least, he didn’t intend to,” she muses. “I’m sure he would, if you asked. Or strong-armed him into it. That is…I suppose that’s a potential solution to the problem of jurisdiction. If he gave you the soldiers, even if it’s a post-hoc justification he uses to save face…You could just say you thought that they too were part of the tribute, and he would almost certainly accept it. Though that then does legitimize the concept of you receiving people as tribute…”

She trails off. “Forgive me, my lord,” she murmurs. “My thoughts grow tired and confused.”

“Mm,” says the White Wolf. She does not know if that means she is forgiven. She finds that she does not have the energy to care.

“We can break,” suggests Eskel.

“It’s almost dinner time,” adds Triss.

The White Wolf raises a hand to stay their suggestions. He is still entirely focused on Livi.

“Janek and Aron,” he says, with the same deliberation in which he says everything. “They didn’t touch you?”

“They didn’t,” answers Livi. “Nothing happened.”

The White Wolf leans forward. “That’s a lie,” he says.

“Geralt…”

The warlord waves off his second once again. Livi can’t help but meet his eyes, level now with hers, terrible and golden.

“They would—grab,” she whispers. “After I—just when…when they were tying me up, or putting me on the horse, or taking me down. Or checking the ropes. Or—they would check to see if I was still in my bedroll. At night. Or—just whenever there was an excuse. But—there was always an excuse. It wasn’t—It was over my dress. Nothing ever—It wasn’t…there was always a reason. They’d adjust me. In the saddle. And Grol was the worst. But the others—they all did it. Except for Peet, and Captain Siert. They all—just sometimes. It wasn’t anything, really.”

The White Wolf nods and straightens back up. “They lose their hands,” he declares.

He frowns, turns to Eskel. “One each,” he clarifies. “The dominant one.”

Eskel inclines his head. “Now?”

“Mm.”

Eskel rises from his seat and stretches a bit. He turns to Livi. “Do you want to see them punished?” he asks. “And the other ones killed?”

Livi just stares at him for a long moment, hardly able to believe that this is actually happening. And so swiftly too. “No,” she says, when she is finally able to remember how to speak. “I do not want to see them at all. Any of them.”

Perhaps it is cowardly of her, to condemn two men to die and two to permanent maiming, and then refuse to even watch the sentence be carried out.

But she just doesn’t want to see them.

She is…since she has come to Kaer Morhen, none of her guards have been there. Except for Dragonfly, but that was obviously different. She doesn’t think she could bear it to see any of them here now, and she is too tired to even try to pretend otherwise.

“Alright,” says Eskel. “Consider it done. Geralt?”

The White Wolf is already by the door. “Yen,” he says, “I want them gone.” 

Lady Yennefer, too, rises. “Easy enough,” she says. “Portal directly to the palace?”

“Mm.”

“I’ll have to make some calls.” The sorceress is out the door without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Triss—“

“The letters, yes, I’m on it.” And she is indeed helping herself to stationary supplies from the office’s shelves. “I’ll meet you there in a moment to get the specifics. Wait for me before you begin?”

The White Wolf nods, and leaves with Eskel and Vesemir flanking him to either side.

Just like that, it is only Triss and Livi and Dragonfly remaining.

Triss finishes tucking writing supplies into her pockets, and kneels right by Livi’s chair.

“Oh, you brave, brave girl,” she says, smoothing Livi’s clenched fists between her own two hands. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.”

Livi shrugs, a bit awkward with her hands trapped. “It’s fine.”

Triss smiles sadly. “It’s not, but it is over. I promise, it’s over.”

Over. Livi turns the concept around in her mind and finds that she can’t quite understand it.

But she is alive, and unharmed, and beginning to believe she just may stay that way. So maybe that’s what over is.

And maybe it is over.