the angels hidden blade

TWENTY SIX

The group traversed the rugged landscape in rigid silence, each member enveloped in the solemn aftermath of their recent brush with death. 

Nefeli, her body a canvas of pain, was slung uncomfortably over Fenrir's saddle. 

Groans escaped her lips with each jostle, drawing Geralt's concerned gaze every time the horse navigated over a rocky terrain.

The air was heavy with unspoken thoughts, and Nefeli, despite the discomfort, found herself stealing glances at the landscape around them. 

The hills rolled in undulating waves, bathed in the soft hues of dusk. 

As they moved forward, the trees whispered with the secrets of the ancient sanctuary, their leaves rustling in a language not known.

The distant murmur of a stream provided a melodic backdrop to the rhythmic beat of hooves against the earth.

The weight of silence persisted until, unable to endure it any longer, Jaskier broke the spell with a sudden burst of laughter. 

The sound, like a playful breeze, carried through the air, momentarily lifting the sombre mood that had settled over the group.

Nefeli's eyes, though clouded with pain, flickered with a momentary appreciation for the beauty of the landscape. 

The King of Elves had spared them. 

The weight of that decision lingered in the air, a palpable acknowledgment of the fragile alliance that had been tested and, miraculously, held.

The atmosphere remained heavy as the group moved through the landscape, each member lost in their thoughts. 

It wasn't until Jaskier, unable to bear the tension any longer, shattered the silence with laughter.

"Okay, if no one is going to speak, I'm just going to say it. That was brilliant! The whole reverse psychology, 'kill me, I'm ready,' and the 'I feel your pain' routine? Amazing. Utterly amazing," Jaskier chuckled, his eyes dancing between the injured Nefeli and the angry Witcher.

His laughter, a resounding echo in the quiet landscape, served as a release valve for the pent-up tension. 

Geralt, though weary, cracked a faint smile at Jaskier's assessment. 

Nefeli, still slung over Fenrir's saddle, managed a small grin despite the pain that etched her features.

"I'm so over that now. I almost died. I really couldn't care about much else. I'm just glad you didn't die," she replied, her fingers gripping Fenrir's reins tightly.

Her words, though laden with exhaustion, carried a genuine warmth. 

She was glad Jeskiar didn't die. 

The weariness in her eyes hinted at the toll the recent events had taken on her both physically and mentally.

The air was tinged with a fragile sense of camaraderie, a shared relief that they had emerged from the brink of disaster.

Nefeli's gaze shifted to Geralt, her silent acknowledgment a reflection of the surprising kindness he had shown to the Elves despite their attempts to kill him. 

The memory of him returning the ducat, taken from the townspeople to hunt the devil, lingered in the air like a whisper.

And before they had left, Filavandrel had given her salve for her wound and something more.

"If you ever wish to be more, you have a place with us," the Elf King had said, his words carrying a weight that resonated with the promise of acceptance within their community.