the angels hidden blade

TWENTY SEVEN

Six Months Later 

Nefeli slammed her chipped ceramic cup of mead against the hard wooden table, the sharp clatter cutting through the air like a defiant bell ring. 

The low hum of conversation in the crowded tavern dulled into hushed whispers, and all eyes turned towards her. 

She paid no mind to the villagers' horrified look at her hair and eyes, instead focusing on the chunk of bread in her hands, tearing off pieces with dirty fingernails and stuffing them into her mouth.

Grit and indifference had become Nefeli's companions. So had the silence from the Witcher. 

After that day in Posada, he had gone back to avoiding her as if she had the plague. 

Which was probably for the best. They had fallen into a sort of rhythm that only companions kept, and it made her weary. 

So she too kept her distance and spent more time with the bard that had accompanied them. 

Jaskier was unlike any man she had ever met. And considering she had only met Witchers, there was a stark difference. 

He was crude, sarcastic and overly confident. But he was also kind and felt this deeply. She knew if she ever had a brother, this is what it felt like.

The tales of the village they were in, somewhere along the North, were of little interest to her. 

But an old man's frantic proclamation caught her attention like a gust of wind through a desolate forest.

"I tell you no lie! It swallowed the whole village, it did!" The round man's voice rose above the murmurs, his face a canvas of blood and dirt, wide, unblinking eyes radiating terror.

"Not a bone to be found!" His words reverberated, eliciting gasps from the onlookers.

Jaskier sitting in front of the man scribbled away in his leather-bound journal, a white feather clutched between his fingers. 

Nefeli only continued to drink her mead, the spiced liquid sending warmth over her chest and cold skin.

"That's why we had to call him, the White Wolf!" The man continued, eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for validation.

"He stood in the middle of that frozen lake like he knew it was coming for him. The ice cracked open, and the Selkimore shot out!" He waved his arms wildly, painting an image of impending doom.

Nefeli took another nonchalant sip of her ale, regarding the old man with mild amusement. Over the past months, she had seen many a horrifying creature and with each one, the Witcher had slayed without a worry.

Jaskier, on the other hand, found the unfolding drama absolutely brilliant, his laughter blending with the eerie silence that enveloped the tavern.

"And then what happened?" His voice cut through the tension, indifferent to the man's tale. 

"He died," the man sobbed, his voice dripping with sadness and despair.

Nefeli chuckled, finding the man's distress oddly entertaining, while Jaskier continued jotting down every dramatic detail.

The tavern's patrons shifted their attention to Nefeli, a mix of shock and outrage in their expressions at her blatant disregard for the Witcher, and her companion's life.

"I'm sure he's fine," she remarked, taking another sip of her ale. 

Gasps filled the air as the villagers struggled to comprehend her callousness.