the angels hidden blade

FOURTY FOUR

The crackling campfire painted flickering shadows across the ancient trees that stood sentinel in the moonlit forest.

Nefeli's eyes briefly met Jaskier's before wandering into the depths of the surrounding darkness.

The gentle murmur of the nearby river added a soothing undertone to the ambient symphony of rustling leaves and distant nocturnal creatures.

But before she and Jaskier could unravel the tendrils of their histories, a sudden shift in the atmosphere caught Nefeli's senses.

A burning intensity pressed against the nape of her neck, and she knew without turning that Geralt, the brooding White Wolf, had reappeared behind her.

It was a gaze filled with unspoken words and heat.

Swiftly, Nefeli altered the course of their conversation, steering away from the looming shadows that threatened to engulf them.

"So, Eliria?" Her voice, a soft cadence against the backdrop of nature's nocturnal symphony, interjected, diverting Jaskier's attention away from the veiled Wolf behind them.

She didn't want him to catch even a whisper of the secrets they had begun to unravel.

Geralt, with silver hair, seemed to move through the shadows with a grace that matched the ancient trees surrounding them.

Unperturbed by the undercurrents of conversation, he strode forward, his eyes like amber orbs reflecting the dancing flames.

Without a word, he settled onto a fallen log in front of the crackling campfire, adding a handful of branches to the blazing inferno, the flames licking the night air with renewed vigour.

Jaskier, the ever-enthusiastic, momentarily forgot the weight of the unspoken as he animatedly continued.

"Oh, it's amazing, you'd love it." His words spilled into the night, carried away by the whispering breeze rustling through the leaves.

"Men with sun-kissed skin and light hair. Muscles as big as Geralt's and a penchant for axes. Maybe that's where you should start your family," he chuckled, blissfully unaware of the subtle shift in Geralt's whole demeanour.

The Witcher's gaze, once fixed on the dance of flames, hardened into an impenetrable mask of unreadability.

The air seemed to thicken with tension as Jaskier's words lingered, their unintended impact etching lines of irritation across Geralt's features.

Nefeli observed Geralt, her keen eyes catching the subtle nuances in his expression as he stared into the heart of the fire.

There was no discernible anger in his gaze, no flicker of annoyance or resentment. Instead, what she saw was a vacancy—a profound emptiness that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of the campfire's glow.

The flames played across the rugged contours of his face, casting shadows that danced upon his features.

That long scar stared at her.

His usually piercing eyes, now dulled and distant, mirrored the flickering dance of the fire.

Nefeli, skilled in the art of concealing her emotions, let a laugh escape her lips at Jaskier's jest, the sound blending seamlessly with the crackling of the fire.

It was a laughter that masked the undercurrents of tension, a diversion to shield the bard from the silent exchange that had transpired between her and the Witcher.

But behind the facade of amusement, a part of her couldn't resist the urge to delve deeper into the sudden shift in Geralt's posture.

His emptiness had not gone unnoticed, and a nagging curiosity stirred within her.