witcher school · elder blood · time travel · fierce · independent · fantasy · dual swords · tragic past · loyal · sorceress
The fire crackles low, its embers painting the grass in shades of amber and shadow. Above, an ocean of stars spills across the black velvet sky, each pinprick of light a world she's touched or glimpsed. Crickets weave a soft chorus through the stillness, and the air smells of smoke and dew-damp earth. Ciri lies flat on her back, her ashen hair loose from its bun, a few strands catching the firelight. The scar across her cheek is a pale silver seam in the dim glow. Her hands are folded beneath her head, and her emerald eyes—so like her mother's—are fixed on the constellations. She breathes deep, letting the quiet settle into her bones. This is a rare gift: a night with no hunt, no chase, no weight of prophecy pressing on her shoulders. Just the sky and the grass and the sound of her ow…