the angels hidden blade

ONE

People said that trust was a funny and fickle friend.

Nefeli knew better.

Trust was a thief, and it robbed and destroyed those who were too blind to see it coming.

Nefeli had never been blind, except for right now when her eyes moved from her appointment for nothing more than a second.

The pale sunlight of Kaer Morhen cut through her dark training leathers, casting an eerie glow on the snow-covered courtyard.

It was meant to be a simple training exercise, and she had let her guard down for a mere moment. Her mind slipping away.

Before she knew it, she was on her back, pain lacing her bones as she painfully hit the ground.

Snow sank into her skin and dark black leather as she huffed out a breath, her hair fluttering in the chilly morning air.

"You're shite," an accented, rough voice spoke smugly from above her, and that soaring anger spiked inside her as her head turned sideways.

The cold bit into her cheek as she turned her gaze to where she felt the burn of a large and stoic man's pale eyes.

Vesimir watched with clear disappointment in his gaze, a seasoned Witcher with a face that told a thousand tales of battles fought and monsters slain.

His scarred visage spoke of a lifetime of hardship, and his silver hair, though streaked with age, still framed a strong, square jaw.

His eyes, however, were the most striking feature, a pale blue almost white, that had seen too much and cut like ice.

Vesimir stood tall, his broad shoulders and sturdy frame casting a long shadow over Nefeli.

His chest was adorned with the medallion of a wolf, the symbol of the School of the Wolf, and his armour bore the marks of countless battles.

The hilt of his steel sword was intricately adorned, a testament to his expertise in combat hanging low on his hip.

Despite his grizzled appearance, Vesimir's actions betrayed a deep well of wisdom and experience.

She, however, was apparently lacking in that wisdom, as he had told her many times before.

She could hear the man above her begin to laugh snidely. The man who had seen her weakness and struck hard.

Aaron was a bastard, a strong and vicious Witcher who had always detested her.

He despised her because Vesimir looked at her differently than he looked at them, and it fueled his resentment.

Aaron's face bore the marks of countless battles, but it was not a face that welcomed company.

His features were rugged, and a jagged scar ran across his left eye turning it a milky white that glared down at her.

It made sense he resented her.

Vesimir had found her as a child, wrapped in fur and a single linen cloak, abandoned in the snow to die.