the angels hidden blade

THIRTY

As the vibrant melodies of the band swirled around them, Geralt, Nefeli, and Mousesack found solace in a quiet corner, observing the opulent spectacle of the Skellige royal court.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of wine and ambition, while noblemen vied for the attention of Princess Pavetta, like hounds chasing a prized bone.

"I've been advising the Skellige crown for years," Mousesack boasted, his gaze shifting between the witcher and the petite pink-haired woman. 

His weathered face crinkled with amusement as he downed another ale, extending a cup of wine to Nefeli, who accepted it with a cautious smile.

"A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me," he chuckled, the alcohol enhancing his joviality.

"Old and crusty," Geralt's lips curved into a small smile at his old friend's words.

The surrounding crowd erupted in cheers, rich folks stumbling about with goblets in hand revelling in their privileged decadence.

They were drunk off their minds.

"How long before this horse trading is done?" Geralt scoffed, his gaze scanning the chaotic scene. 

Nefeli agreed wholeheartedly; this opulent display was far from their usual monster hunting.

"I find royalty best taken in... small doses," Geralt remarked, taking a deep swig from his own goblet as if already feeling the weight of being surrounded by so many people.

"I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize," Mousesack informed them, his attention returning to the royal family. 

Nefeli's expression betrayed a mix of sadness and frustration, unseen by the older man.

She knew this was just the way of the court, but it seemed almost barbaric to flaunt a human being like a chunk of meat.

"Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?" Mousesack pondered, his gaze flickering to Geralt with genuine curiosity as if trying to unravel the enigma that was the Witcher.

"Hm," Geralt grunted, seizing a jug of wine from one of the nearby tables and refilling his cup before pouring some for Nefeli.

She drank it down quickly, trying to let the hot liquid burn away the thought of what the Princess was going through.

The joyful music of the band reached a crescendo, filling the air with energy as Geralt shifted his attention to the group of haughty royal suitors eyeing the disheartened princess as if she were a prized commodity.

"So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?" Geralt quipped, his tone laced with cynicism, as they watched the display of grandiosity unfold.

Nefeli stiffened at the idea of placing bets on a woman's unhappiness.

"It's not a fair bet," Mousesack replied, guiding Nefeli and Geralt away from the commotion towards a secluded spot where they could quietly observe the festivities.

"That red-headed scandarlout over there, Crach of Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle," Mousesack informed them, his voice tinged with disdain. 

Nefeli couldn't help but agree with his assessment—Crach of Craite appeared more like a round-bellied, ale-soaked fool, stumbling about the polished floor.

Nothing like Witcher, she thought, her mind suddenly freezing as dread ate at her stomach. 

Her eyes darted to the man beside her, but he seemed oblivious to her wide-eyed stare, his attention wandering lazily around the room.

"No one would dare challenge such a powerful alliance. Queen Calanthe refused his proposal three times after King Roegner died, despite their courtship being as intricate as swans in dance. She was not about to live in her husband's shadow again," Mousesack rambled on, but Nefeli's thoughts were consumed by the Witcher at her side.

Her heart raced, her eyes unwilling to break away from his sharp features and the enticing allure of his soft lips.

Stop it! She screamed at herself as her heart began to beat loudly in her head. 

In that moment, the boundary between companionship and something more blurred, as desire ignited within Nefeli, its flames threatening to consume her.

As Nefeli's eyes fixated on Geralt's ruggedly handsome face, her gaze zeroed in on his lips, an unspoken desire pulling her towards him.

Despite the height difference, the idea of surrendering herself to his embrace became strangely appealing, kindling a fire deep within her core.

Horrified by her own thoughts, she hastily placed the wine glass on an empty table beside them, desperately trying to regain her composure.

But when she finally glanced up, she caught Geralt's amber eyes locked onto her. 

She hoped he hadn't seen her stare.

Her cheeks burned with a crimson flush, and she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

Uncertain if it was her own imagination or the influence of the wine, she thought she detected a similar intensity, a flicker of that same heated desire reflected in his golden eyes.

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, leaving Nefeli bewildered and questioning her own emotions. 

She didn't understand at all.

"Are you well, little Cupid?" The man's voice carried a taunting undertone as he observed her discomfort. 

Nefeli could sense his amusement as her cheeks burned brighter with embarrassment.

"Y-yes, of course," she stammered, avoiding his gaze at all costs.

Suddenly, she felt a gentle pressure under her chin, a touch that sent shivers of electricity racing through her body.

Her head throbbed, and her senses overwhelmed with fire. 

The Witcher's actions compelled her to look up, their eyes meeting in an intense moment of connection.

As his finger held her chin gently. His hand could cover her face, but she tried to push that thought aside as her skin burned.

His enigmatic "Hm" was the only response he offered as he studied her face. 

His golden eyes held no emotion as he looked at her.

In a gesture both unexpected and mesmerizing, his calloused thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip with tantalizing slowness.

Nefeli's eyes widened, her entire being set ablaze with a whirlwind of emotions—desire, confusion, and fear entwined in a chaotic dance.

She instinctively recoiled, breaking free from his warm touch, her rapid breaths betraying her inner turmoil.

"I-I'm going to find the bard," she stammered, her voice trembling, as she hurriedly moved away from the Witcher.

With her heart pounding and her mind in disarray, Nefeli sought solace in the presence of her friend, who stood engrossed in a tense conversation with an older man.

Her shallow breaths only began to steady as she approached. 

Desperately seeking refuge from the storm that raged within her.

Ignore it. 

But it was becoming harder and harder to do.