Weeks had passed since the chilling events of Blaviken, and the echoes of that fateful day lingered between Nefeli and Geralt like unspoken curses.
The air was thick with tension. Silence had become the unwelcome companion of their uneasy journey.
The road stretched out before them, winding through dense forests and open fields, yet the distance between Nefeli and Geralt seemed insurmountable.
He rode in front of her again.
Everything had turned on its head, she guessed it was her fault.
The incident at Blaviken hung like a spectre over their every move, a haunting reminder of the choices made and the lives lost.
Her life.
She tried not to feel sorry for the brown-haired, green-eyed woman but she couldn't help it.
Nefeli stole glances at Geralt when she thought he wasn't looking, searching for some sign, some clue to the turmoil that churned beneath his stoic exterior.
There was none.
The Witcher, renowned for his resilience, appeared more impenetrable than ever.
As they made their way through the world that felt both vast and confined, Nefeli's mind often revisited the chaotic escape from Blaviken.
Renfri's lifeless body lay in the wake of the bloody confrontation, and the memory of Geralt's reluctant acceptance of the necessity of her death lingered like a bitter aftertaste.
She hoped Marilka was safe.
Nefeli was not only grappling with the emotional aftermath of Blaviken but also with the physical toll it had taken on her.
The adrenaline that had fueled her during the fight had masked the pain, but now, as the days passed, it returned with a vengeance.
Her hand instinctively went to her side, where a painful gash marked the souvenir of that bloody day.
The wound, once superficial, had become a source of relentless agony.
The edges were inflamed, the skin around it angry and red.
The infection had taken hold, and Nefeli knew she couldn't ignore it any longer.
She needed to clean it, but she could not bathe since the Witcher was always at her side.
She stole a cautious glance at the White Wolf, unsure of whether to break the oppressive silence that enveloped them.
His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tight with unspoken words.
Perhaps he, too, was haunted by the ghosts of Blaviken.
The flickering glow of the inn's fire played upon the worn wooden beams and stone walls of the quaint establishment in Posada.
The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and the comforting aroma of hearty stews simmering in the kitchen.
Posada, a name that whispered through the locals' conversations like a well-kept secret, was a haven nestled between rolling hills and dense woods.
The inn, known as "The Weary Traveler," boasted a rustic charm that echoed the character of the town itself.
The wooden tables, scarred by countless tankards and the occasional blade, stood testament to the stories shared within these walls.
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the angels hidden blade
FanfictionNefeli, or "Cupid", as the infuriating beast likes to call her, has never been wanted at anyone's side, and she sure as hell has never been loyal to a single soul. The stoic and fierce Vesemir bled the ability out of her, just as he tainted her blo...
