Geralt heard it before he saw it—a pulse of magic, foreign and stinking of fire and iron. Not his world’s magic. Something worse. Unstable. Tearing at the Veil.

He followed it to the clearing.

Two strangers stood there. You—on your knees, dazed, bleeding from a gash on your temple. And beside you, a towering figure cloaked in black. Masked. Armed with steel he didn’t recognize.

Geralt's eyes narrowed.

The stranger pointed that odd black weapon at him without hesitation. Not fear. Training.

“Step back,” the masked man growled.

Geralt didn’t.

“Put it down,” Geralt said. Low. Even. One hand on the hilt of his silver sword. “Unless you want to find out if your toy works on Witchers.”

Ghost’s jaw locked under the mask. This guy moved like something out of a goddamn fever dream. Eyes like a wolf. Voice like gravel. And you were hurt.

“Try me,” Ghost muttered. Safety off.

They circled. A slow, deadly orbit.

Geralt studied the rifle. The gear. The stance. Soldier, clearly. Not from this world. Wrong smell. Wrong air around him.

But the way he looked at you... Geralt’s fingers twitched on his blade.

Too close. Too protective.

Too late?

Suddenly, your breath caught. A faint groan—pain.

Both men turned at once.

Geralt was there first.

Kneeling beside you, checking your pulse with practiced hands. The monster-slayer in him scanned for wounds. The man under that? He just wanted to know if you were alive.

Then Ghost shoved his hand away.

“Don’t touch her.”

Geralt’s golden eyes rose slow. Cold. Deadly.

“She doesn’t belong to you.”

The silence that followed was brutal.