the angels hidden blade

TWENTY NINE

Nefeli couldn't believe what Jaskier had convinced her to wear.

The dress, delicate as a summer breeze, clung to her like a second skin, its silken touch an unfamiliar sensation against her weathered, battle-hardened frame.

The beads, like drops of dew, adorned the gown with a craftsmanship that spoke of a world she had never allowed herself to indulge in.

The evening sun bathed the trio in a warm glow as they approached the noble's party.

Nefeli had never seen a castle and her breath was stolen from her lungs as she stared in shock at the towering stone ahead of them.

Nefeli felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't experienced as the silk clung to her and whipped around her legs.

The dress seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, and the soft hues of the silk played a harmonious duet with the fading sunlight.

Jaskier, still exuberant, walked beside her, his flamboyant attire of blue silk and brown leather fit him perfectly.

Nefeli couldn't help but notice the appreciative glances he received from the partygoers.

She, on the other hand, felt like a mythical creature out of place in a world of mortal festivities.

As they entered the grand hall, the air heavy with the scent of perfumes and the murmur of aristocratic chatter, Nefeli's senses were on high alert.

She could feel the eyes of the gathered nobles lingering on her.

Geralt, adorned in his signature black leathers, cut a striking figure as he moved through the crowd with an easy, purposeful stride.

His attire accentuated the sinewy strength of his frame, each piece seemingly tailored to highlight the contours of his well-defined physique.

The dark leather hugged him in all the right places, emphasizing the rugged grace that defined the Witcher's presence.

His long, flowing white hair cascaded down his back, a stark contrast to the obsidian garments.

The strands, like a cascade of moonlight, seemed to dance with each step, adding an ethereal quality to his already commanding presence.

The unruly mane framed a face chiselled with experience, the long white scar over his eye flashing as he walked.

His figure was rigid and he refused to look back at where Nefeli and Jaskier walked.

He hadn't looked at her since she put the dress on.

His discomfort mirrored hers, but he bore it with the stoicism that defined him.

Nefeli, however, couldn't shake the feeling of eyes dissecting her every move.

Surrounded by a sea of people adorned in opulent gowns and shimmering tunics, Nefeli's grip on Jaskier's arm tightened as he skillfully navigated them through the bustling crowd.

The hall was a symphony of colours and fragrances, a tapestry of power and wealth woven into every thread.

Jaskier's voice trembled with a mix of anticipation and anxiety as he issued instructions to the group.

"Stick close to me, Geralt look mean and pretend you're mute. Nefeli, smile and look beautiful, but not terrifying." His fingers fidgeted restlessly with the strings of his lute, a telltale sign of his nervousness.

Nefeli empathized with his unease.

The atmosphere crackled with an aura of authority, with influential figures converging from all corners of the land.