The cold wind whipped at his skin; cracked lips pained with every breath he took. He licked his lips instinctively, trying to wipe away the dryness. The freezing air merely froze his saliva on the spot, increasing the pain of the cracks in the skin.
He sighed to himself, cursing softly under his breath. He clenched his right hand, pain shooting through his wrist and up his arm. He shifted his weight as he felt the nerves of his leg scream. For an instant, his memory showed him the ancient forest, and he felt the tender but certain fingers of the dryads pushing and pulling against his skin.
The sound of footsteps in the snow pulled him from his thoughts. He looked down to the drops of blood in the snow as she approached. He could still smell the girl’s blood. They had been too late. The creature had caught the young girl before they could reach her, and he remembered feeling Ciri’s hatred and desperation as she disappeared in a flash of magical energy. He remembered hearing the screams of the girl as the monster flew with her. Moments later and the girls’ screams stopped suddenly.
An hour or so later he had heard the deafening screams of the creature and the unmistakable stench of monster blood. And now Ciri had returned, completely covered in the stench of her own sweat and blood. He looked up towards the sky as he smelled the soft sweet scent of her hair - still winding its way through his nostrils despite the other overpowering smells.
He smirked softly, still shifting his weight to protect his screaming nerves from the freezing chill. Far in the distance, he could see the distant lights of Nilfgaard’s golden towers.
“Your father,” the word caught in his throat like bile, “Would kill me if he knew I allowed you hunt a monster on your own. Glorified chaperone were his exact words, I believe.”
