the angels hidden blade

TWELVE

It didn't matter how she masked her thoughts and feelings, he always seemed to see straight through her. 

The doe imprinted in her mind as she sat atop the large horse. 

The rhythmic sound of Fenrir's hooves echoed in Nefeli's ears as they approached the main gates of a small shire. 

Her grip on the reins tightened, a subtle expression of the tension coiled within her. 

The shire sprawled before them was a hive of activity. The air buzzed with the sounds of labour—metal clinking against metal, vendors haggling over prices, and the distant hum of conversation. 

Nefeli felt the energy of the place, a vibrant pulse that contradicted the heaviness in her heart.

As they meandered through the crowded streets, Nefeli drew the hood of her dark cotton cloak further over her head. 

The concealing fabric did little to hide the vibrant pink curls beneath, but it provided a semblance of protection, a thin veil against the prying eyes that sought to dissect the mystery of her appearance. 

She felt the weight of gazes, suspicious and curious, trailing her every step.

The air was heavy with humidity, it clung to her skin, a precursor to the storm that waited on the horizon.

Nefeli's thoughts wandered, like leaves carried by the wind. 

What was it about the White Wolf, she wondered, that allowed him to pierce through the carefully constructed fortress around her thoughts and feelings? 

It was as if he held a key, effortlessly unlocking the doors she tried so hard to keep closed. 

The vulnerability of it unsettled her, and yet, there was a strange comfort in being seen.

Ignore it. She told herself again. 

As they navigated through the chaotic scene, animals darted between the legs of their horses, adding to the sensory overload. 

Nefeli's gaze flitted from one scene to another, absorbing the details of the shire—the worn cobblestone streets, the weathered faces of the townsfolk, and the colourful stalls that lined the thoroughfare.

Nefeli, sensing the tension in the air, moved closer to the White Wolf and Roach, seeking solace in his presence. 

The townspeople scowled at them, their suspicious gazes like invisible daggers cutting through the atmosphere. 

Geralt, unbothered by the hostility, stood tall and unmoving, a pillar of stoic indifference. 

It was a familiar scene for him, but for Nefeli, it was a stark reminder of the isolation that often accompanied the life of a witcher.

The lack of a hood did little to alter the townspeople's perception. 

If anything, Geralt's exposed features seemed to intensify their disapproval. 

Nefeli couldn't help but wonder if this was the constant reality for witchers—unwanted, misunderstood, and met with hostility wherever they went.

With a subtle nod from Geralt, Nefeli directed her horse towards a small tavern up ahead. 

The wooden sign creaked in the wind, bearing the faded image of a tankard overflowing with frothy ale. 

Relief flooded through her at the prospect of respite. 

Hunger gnawed at her stomach, a persistent reminder of the miles they had travelled, and the food she had run out of. 

The creak of the tavern door announced their arrival, and the warmth within embraced them like a comforting blanket.