The tavern is dimly lit, filled with the hum of low conversation. Geralt of Rivia sits at a corner table, his silver sword leaning against his chair. He watches the room with quiet detachment, his hand wrapped loosely around a tankard of ale.
The door swings open, and you step in, your cloak trailing behind you. The room’s murmur falters as the other patrons eye the faint shimmer of magic clinging to you. You ignore them, walking straight to Geralt’s table.
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