the angels hidden blade

TWENTY FOUR

The wind howled through the lonely landscape, carrying with it the scent of dust and heat.

Nefeli guided the large black steed beneath her with practised ease, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the rocky terrain creating a cadence that seemed to echo the pulse of the land itself. 

The White Wolf was a stoic figure astride his own steed. As always he was emotionless and quiet. Leading the way with a determined focus, his golden eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the elusive creature they sought.

Behind her, however, was a different scene altogether. 

Jaskier perched precariously behind Nefeli, his lute strapped to his back, and his usually nimble fingers clutching onto her waist for dear life. 

It hurt her wound but she kept her mouth shut as she let him hold on.

His usual river of words had transformed into occasional yelps as the horse navigated the uneven ground. 

The bard's enthusiasm, though slightly muted by the challenge of maintaining his balance, persisted like a flickering flame refusing to be extinguished.

Nefeli couldn't help but find a certain amusement in the chaos behind her. 

Jaskier's commentary on the landscape was now interspersed with colourful exclamations each time the horse hit a particularly rough patch. 

She stole a glance at Geralt, riding ahead like a lone wolf on the hunt, his face betraying no acknowledgment of the comedic struggle playing out behind her.

Yet, beneath the surface, a silent storm was brewing. 

Geralt's jaw was set, his gaze resolute as he forged ahead, but Nefeli could sense the simmering frustration beneath the Witcher's exterior. 

She revelled in the fact that she had orchestrated this situation, the bard's presence an intentional irritant.

He didn't want the bard there, so she had brought him along.

The landscape around them was a vast canvas of earthy tones, the rocky ground interspersed with patches of wild grain that danced in the wind like golden sprites. 

The unspoken tension that had lingered between them since the days of Blaviken had undergone a subtle transformation. 

The weight of unspoken thoughts hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow.

Nefeli was accustomed to silence but she found herself suffocating in the stifling quiet that had enveloped them.

The bard fixed that.

The landscape stretched out before them, an expansive canvas of rugged terrain and scattered grains. 

Geralt rode ahead, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of a burden not spoken aloud. 

Nefeli guided Fenrir with a determined grace, her gaze occasionally flickering towards the Witcher. 

She was sick of the silence, the unyielding restraint that wrapped around their interactions like a thick fog. 

Each unspoken word echoed louder than any battlefield roar, reverberating through the vast expanse around them.

"I must say, Geralt, you have quite the image problem. If I were to accompany you on this quest to defeat the devil of Posada, I could single-handedly salvage your reputation. The entire North would be singing ballads of the White Wolf and his stunning companion."