In the end, the love once shared between Syanna and Dettlaff was not enough. Certainly not enough to sustain any cordial approach between the two. And thus, amidst his emotional distress, Dettlaff cut Syanna down, striking her through with his claws before witcher or fellow kin could react. Naturally, the death of her sister did not sit well with Duchess Anna Henrietta and she confined Geralt of Rivia to the Toussaint prison where days turned to weeks, and weeks turned into months.

And the months dragged on.

Torn between waiting for Geralt's possible release and restoring his blood brother back to his eternal glory, Regis counted his losses and returned to his home in Dilligen with Dettlaff in tow. As for Lazarus' whereabouts, he was not certain.

That night her blood had sent his mental faculties careening like leaves to the wind. Scattering with no sense of direction. Climbing and plummeting with no chance of regaining control; Regis had to force himself to throw up or lose his principles entirely. The bloodlust was unimaginable. Strangely, he still had difficulty recalling those moments, but he knew it happened.

He searched for her often, sifting through his senses, listening for her in his mind. Nothing ever came of it. There was no one to answer his call.

But as Geralt, a voice of reason said..

Regis had to let her go.

The cold wind stole away the warmth any traveler might have, sweeping it across an icy river churned white through the valleys. Neglected, forgotten, overrun, Kaer Morhen was ruins of what once promised a great foothold from days long past, tucked against the sharp foothills of an impressive mountain. Few travelers made it this far, even fewer beheld its ranges of peaks and carving rivers surrounding the witcher's fortress. Far-flung and protected by earth's perilous terrains, it was impossible to find if you didn't know where to look. And even then, there was plenty of illusions in place.

Under a bright sun and amidst a biting wind, the keep foundation was still swept in snow. Ice sickles glittered in the morning light and dripped as the day slowly warmed. Despite its appearances and lack of maintenance, the hold was still strong and unwavering. It held onto its past promises, wearing the scars honorably and humbly. Wildflowers and grass reigned unkempt across flagstone and climbed up broken walls. Moss blanketed post and toppled weapons racks softened to rot. A set of buckled stairs led aloft where the battlements overlooked the view of the Blue Mountains.

While many ranges provided gentle hillocks and gradual slopes into its ascent, the Blue Mountain offered no such respite. Consisting of steep inclines, sheer drops, and craggy, unstable cliff faces, the glaring fact that the witcher's chose this unforgiving and secluded wilderness for their training spoke clearly about the harsh guild that was the School of the Wolf.

In the dark belly of Kaer Morhen, a haunting draft carried through the dark cavernous hall. Leaves scattered across the weathered marble floors while iron chandeliers drove shadows into the corners of the high arched ceilings. Cobwebs quivered against the breeze. Insects weaved, buried, and strayed from the light. Torches hung from their iron sconces danced and wavered, revealing more weapon racks filled with spears, short and long swords, halberds and orions. Every surface dusty and riddled with cobwebs, including the table and the bookshelves lining to walls and filling the center of the hall.

Near a large hearth, Ciri ran a whetting stone down the length of her sword in careful, meticulous strokes. A healthy fire before her blazed brightly, playing with the shadows and weaving strings of gold in her gleaming ashen hair. She checked the edge's progress with her thumb before applying several more strokes. Then she paused, listening for something. The fire, reflected in her emerald eyes, shifted and whispered. She was alone here, so why...

Turn around.

She twisted, casting a look over her shoulder just as the creature entered. It limped into the great hall, blood trickling from its snout. The moment she rose to her feet, it collapsed onto the floor. A long, mournful groan slipped from its lungs. It's dying, she realized and lowered her guard, frowning.

A pitiful heap of skin, bones, and matted, mangy fur, it lay there with its eyes closed and focused solely on breathing. With a sharp sword at her disposal, she had the means to put it out of its misery. Why it wandered into the fortress to die was unknown, but the least she could do for the creature was see it off cleanly and swiftly. She approached, sword in hand. It opened its weary stare, struggling to center its eyes onto her. A blazing gold in one and a warm, summer blue in the other. Ciri faltered with uncertainty. Each breath dragged through its lungs became more shallow and laborious than the last, shortening as the seconds ticked on.

Put it out of its misery, Ciri.

Resolute, she closed the distance, boot heels knocking against the hard floor, lifted her sword.

And froze.