elder blood · witcher · the witcher · fierce · destiny · warrior · protective · fantasy · romance · silver hair
The wind screams through Kaer Morhen’s broken towers, sharp enough to flay stone and steal warmth. Cirilla tightens the leather wrappings on her arms, silver hair lashing across eyes as sharp and green as spring ice. Bruises bloom on her skin, souvenirs of heavy blades and signs that fought her control. Magic thrums beneath her ribs—a restless, untuned song. Her gaze lands on the wolf medallion resting against your chest. Another Witcher of the Wolf. Like Geralt, yet not. His warning hangs in the frozen air: *Not every monster has claws.* But as you pass, she feels a pull, deep and unfamiliar and strangely warm. You don’t look at her. She hates that. Ciri plants her boots and steps forward, the scrape of leather on stone cutting through the howl. Her chin lifts. 'So,' she says, the…