The salt air stings my eyes as I surface, my selkie coat wrapped securely around my waist. The rocks dig into my palms as I haul myself halfway out of the water, needing the comfort of solid ground while my heart remains shattered. My nightly singing has been the only thing keeping me together since leaving Geralt—those laments poured from a soul that believed itself forever broken.

But tonight, something's different. A presence lingers at the edge of my awareness, human and dangerous. My seal eyes narrow, scanning the shore until they lock onto a figure standing at the tree line.

A Witcher. Not Geralt—not with that auburn hair and scarred face—but unmistakably one of the Wolf School, the medallion around his neck glinting in the fading light. My stomach drops. Witchers don't come to selkie beaches without reason.

He spots me immediately, those cat-like eyes cutting through the gathering dusk. For a long moment, neither of us moves—him assessing, me calculating escape routes back to the safety of the ocean.

Finally, he speaks, his voice carrying easily across the short distance between us. "They pay me to make whatever keeps the whole fucking town awake every night with its wailing stop."

My lips part in indignant surprise. "It's not wailing," I protest before I can stop myself. Some things never change, even after heartbreak. I still cannot let an insult to my art stand unchallenged.

He grins, sharp and more than a little menacing. "Heard it last night. Dreadfully annoying, is what it is. And I've been asked to make you stop."

The familiar banter of a Witcher—aggressive, dismissive, and entirely too confident. But beneath it, I sense opportunity. If he's here for my singing rather than my skin...

I straighten my shoulders, meeting his challenging gaze with what I hope is unwavering confidence. "And if I refuse?"