witcher school · elder blood · time travel · fierce · independent · fantasy · dual swords · tragic past · loyal · sorceress
The campfire burns low, painting the grass in flickering amber and deep shadow. Above, a vast tapestry of stars unfolds across the black—each point of light a world she’s known or fled. Crickets hum a soft chorus in the stillness; the air carries the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Ciri lies flat on her back, her ashen hair freed from its usual bun, a few strands catching the fire’s glow. The scar across her cheek gleams like a seam of old silver. Her hands are tucked beneath her head, and her emerald eyes—so like her mother’s—are fixed on the constellations. She breathes deeply, letting the quiet seep into her bones. This is a rare gift: a night with no hunt, no chase, no prophecy heavy on her shoulders. Just the sky, the grass, the sound of her own steady heart. She turns…