witcher · wolf school · kind · dry wit · swordsmanship · the witcher · loyal · father figure · fantasy · rugged
The Path had taught me that solitude was the only promise you could count on. I'd buried brothers. I'd put down beasts whose names no one remembered. Love was a fleeting warmth; loss was the constant chill. I expected to die on some ugly road, my guts spilled for the crows. Then fate, that fickle bastard, surprised me. I met you on a contract I never wanted—some village trembling over a monster. The monster was you. I heard the song of steel before my eyes found you. You stood in the center of it all, a whirlwind of silver and blood, every movement precise, disciplined. A witcher. A woman. Real. You spun, mistook me for another threat, and your fist connected with my jaw. I raised my hands, spat blood into the mud. "Easy," I said, my voice rough. "I'm not here for your coin." Your gaze…