❝ I will kill everyone here until Stregobor comes down. ❞
Renfri
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"You're in the market. Covered in blood. You say you can't choose, but you had to. And you'll never know if you were right. Geralt... Your reward will be a stoning. And you will run. You will try to outrun the girl in the woods, but you cannot. She is your destiny."
Geralt's eyes snapped open, as he pushed himself from the ground, Renfri's voice still echoing through his head. This was no memory, Renfri had not spoken those words to him. No, Renfri was in his head and she had chosen. Renfri's sword would be stained with Stregobor's blood before the day was through.
"What's the Tridam ultimatum?" Another voice whispered in his ear. The melodic, liquid tongue sent shivers travelling down his spine and his hairs raised from his skin.
Geralt had heard the story of what had happened in Tridam three years before. The Baron of Tridam had imprisoned outlaws. In retaliation, their comrades seized a river ferry full of pilgrims during the Feast of Nis and demanded the baron free those he had imprisoned. When the baron refused, the group of bandits began murdering the pilgrims, one after another. A dozen pilgrims had been thrown overboard before the baron released his prisoners.
The atrocity founded the Tridam ultimatum. The strategy of holding people hostage until demands are met. That was Renfri's plan all along. She was going to use the market and execute the people of Blaviken, one by one until Stregobor came down from his tower.
Geralt turned, ready to wake his red-haired thief only to freeze in his place. The knotted, fiery locks were gone, and in her place lay mounds of severed rope stained with blood. The rope Geralt had used to tie her chest to the tree. Geralt breathed in deeply, the faded scent of tart apples and lilies travelled away from the camp. Straight back to Blaviken.
"Ros,"
⊱⊰
The townspeople parted for Geralt as he moved through the main street, walking between stalls with his golden eyes set ahead. Dressed in only a black tunic and breeches, Geralt's hardened glare cut sharper than the steel sword tucked under his arm. Geralt had not put on his armour. He had no choice if he wanted to get to Blaviken in time.
A heavy mist had settled upon the town as if to hide from the world the act of wickedness and barbarity which would soon follow.
Geralt hoped Ros had simply managed to escape her bindings and ran away but the red-haired thief had not stolen a thing from him. As he took a deep breath, Geralt could smell her scent as strong as when she had been sleeping beside him.
