Chapter 1: Introduction
Zuzran cut some wood with his axe as he looked upon the vineyard . The sun was setting, and the sky was painted in hues of orange and red. The grapes hung heavy on the vines, ripe and ready for harvest. He had spent the better part of his life fighting monsters, but this was the life he had always wanted. Peace. Quiet. A place to call home.
He was just about to go inside when he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching. He turned to see a lone rider on a black stallion, her silver hair flowing behind her like a banner. She was dressed in a black leather outfit, her emerald eyes scanning the vineyard with a mix of curiosity and determination.
Zuzran knew who she was before she even spoke.
The way she carried herself—like a storm barely contained—was unmistakable. He leaned the axe against the chopping block and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The air smelled of crushed grapes and warm earth, but now there was something else beneath it, something sharp and electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.
The rider slowed her horse to a walk, then dismounted with the easy grace of someone who had spent a lifetime in the saddle. She didn’t tie the reins. The stallion, sensing her confidence, simply stood still, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of the vineyard.
Zuzran exhaled through his nose, half-amused, half-resigned.
"So," he said, his voice rough as gravel but laced with the warmth of a man who had seen too much to be surprised by much of anything, "the rumors were true. You *did* survive."
Ciri’s boots crunched over dry leaves as she approached, her expression unreadable. "You sound disappointed."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Disappointed? Of course not, just wondered when you would finally arrive," he states , his voice carrying the weight of years but also a hint of playful teasing. "I've been expecting you for years, Ciri. You were always welcome here, as I told you. I just didn't expect it to take you this long to take me up on the offer."
Zuzran stepped closer, his eyes tracing the subtle changes in her face—the way her youthful defiance had sharpened into something more measured, the faint lines of experience that now framed her emerald eyes. She had grown into herself, but he could still see the echoes of the girl who had once stormed into his life with all the reckless energy of a wildfire.
"Well I had a lot to do alright, not easy to hide form my father as you know,' she states getting off her horse.
"And I had to make sure I wasn't being followed. You know how it is."
Zuzran nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the way her fingers brushed against the hilt of the sword at her hip—a habit she’d never quite shaken. "I do. And I’m glad you took the precautions." He gestured toward the house. "Come, let’s get you something to drink. You look like you’ve been riding for days."
Ciri hesitated for just a moment before following him, her boots kicking up dust as they walked. The vineyard stretched out around them, rows of vines heavy with fruit, the air thick with the scent of earth and ripening grapes.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the dirt path as Zuzran led the way toward his house. It was a sturdy stone structure, built to last, with a wide porch and a view of the rolling hills beyond. The kind of place that looked like it had always been there, as if the land itself had grown up around it.
Ciri followed, her steps light but purposeful. She had always been restless, even as a girl, but now there was a quiet intensity to her, a stillness that belied the storm beneath. She glanced at Zuzran’s back, at the way his muscles moved beneath his worn tunic, at the scars that traced his skin like old, faded stories.
Yet he looked like he had just turned 30 at most, the trials had kept him young for a long time.
His body was lean and hard, the kind of strength that came from decades of battle. The kind of strength that didn't need to show off.
The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, the scent of aged wine and dried herbs spilling out to greet them. Inside, the house was warm and inviting, the walls lined with shelves of books and jars of preserved fruits and vegetables. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room.
Zuzran moved to a sideboard where several bottles of wine stood, their labels faded with age. He selected one, his fingers brushing over the glass as if testing its weight before pulling the cork with a practiced ease.
"I have a few bottles for you to choose from, one I just bottled days ago, or I have this special red blended four hundred years old," he said, holding up the bottle to the light. "It's from before I owned this vineyard," he replied
Ciri leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. "You're telling me you've been sitting on wine that old and haven't cracked it open yet?"
Zuzran smirked, pouring two glasses of the younger vintage. "I've been waiting for the right moment. And I think this qualifies."
She took the glass he offered, her fingers brushing against his for just a second—just long enough for the warmth of his skin to register. The wine was rich, dark, with a hint of blackberry and something deeper, something almost smoky.
"How are you liking the landscapes of Toussaint," he asks as he sat down across from her.
The firelight played across his face, casting shadows that made his scars look deeper, more pronounced. He took a slow sip of his wine, watching her over the rim of the glass.
Ciri swirled the liquid in her glass, letting the firelight catch the deep ruby tones. "It's beautiful," she admitted, though her voice carried a weight that suggested beauty wasn't the only thing on her mind. "Quiet. Almost too quiet."
Zuzran set his glass down with a soft clink. "You're used to noise, then."
She smirked, just a little. "I'm used to *movement*.
To storms," Ciri said, tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip. The firelight caught the silver rings on her hand—one a simple band of twisted metal, another set with a dark stone that seemed to swallow the light. "Not that I don't appreciate the peace. It's just... strange, after so long."
Zuzran leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He studied her—the way her fingers tightened around the glass, the way her gaze flicked toward the window as if expecting something to appear in the gathering dusk. "You're not here for the scenery."
Ciri exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh.
"I am, you know just imaged I would walk into your home and see you had married someone," she states as he laughed a little.
"I told you before, only one person could capture my heart," he replied as he sipped his wine.
"Ah yes, so do you still crave her, because I think she still feels the same," she replied , her eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
Zuzran chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re still as sharp-tongued as ever. That would depend on how they would respond," he replied sipping his wine once again.
"I think she would be happy to see me, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss her."
Ciri took another sip of her wine, the rich, velvety liquid rolling over her tongue. She set the glass down on the worn wooden table, her fingers lingering on the rim. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room.
"I think she does miss you, but she would like to know if you still planned on marrying her," she says blushing a little.
"You know how she is, always thinking of you and your future together."
Zuzran chuckled, his voice low and warm. "So, you still think of a future together with me," he says looking across to her.
His eyes held a warmth that belied the years of battles and hardships. "I suppose I never stopped thinking about it, but I didn't want to burden her with my life. She deserves better than a man who spends his days chasing monsters and his nights haunted by their ghosts."
Ciri leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees, the firelight catching the sharp angles of her face. "She doesn’t want better, Zuzran. She wants *you*." She paused, her voice softening. "And I think you know that."
Zuzran took a slow sip of his wine, the liquid dark and rich as it slid down his throat.
"I do, but I believe you would deserve a family, you know that witchers are sterile," he responded looking at her.
"I would never want to burden you with a life like mine, you deserve better," he states as he sips his wine.
Ciri studied him for a long moment, her emerald eyes reflecting the dance of the flames. There was a quiet intensity in her gaze, as if she were weighing something carefully before speaking. "You always say that," she said finally, her voice soft but firm. "But I think you underestimate me. I’m not some fragile thing that needs protecting."
Zuzran exhaled, a slow, measured breath, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "No," he admitted, "you never were. But tell me do you want a family," he asks as he passed her someone bread he had on the table.
"You know what I mean, children, a home, a life that isn't always on the run."
Ciri took the bread, breaking off a small piece and popping it into her mouth. The crust was crisp, the inside soft and warm. She chewed slowly, considering his words. "I don't know," she admitted after a moment. "I've never really thought about it. My life has always been... complicated."
Zuzran watched her, his expression thoughtful. "Complicated is an understatement," he said with a dry chuckle. "But you can't run forever, Ciri. Even the wildest storms eventually calm."
She looked at him, her emerald eyes reflecting the firelight.
"But if you do want a family I do have this potion," he says pulling it from a shelf. "It is rumored to allow witchers to convince a child," he says looking at her.
"I have never used it, but I know someone who has."
Ciri’s fingers stilled around her glass. The firelight flickered across her face, casting shadows that made her expression unreadable. "You’re serious."
Zuzran nodded, his voice low. "I am. But it’s not a decision to take lightly. And it’s not just about the potion—it’s about what comes after. A child changes everything."
She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. "I know. But…" She hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the last light of dusk bled into twilight. "I do think I would want that, only if we where to get married like you had promised, I think I can get used to staying in one place," she says looking at him.
Zuzran set his glass down with a soft clink, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The fire crackled, sending up a shower of sparks that danced against the chimney’s blackened stones. He studied her—the way her fingers traced the rim of her glass, the way her emerald eyes flickered with something between hope and hesitation.
"You’re sure?" he asked, his voice rough but gentle.
Ciri met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "I’m sure," she said, though the words carried the weight of a thousand unspoken doubts. "But I need to know—do *you* want this?
Or are you just saying it because you think it’s what I want to hear?" Ciri leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, the firelight catching the sharp angles of her face. "I’ve spent my whole life being told what I should want, Zuzran. I won’t do that to myself again."
Zuzran exhaled slowly, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy cloak. He set his glass down and reached for the bottle of wine, refilling both their glasses with deliberate care. The liquid swirled dark and rich, catching the firelight like spilled blood.
"I’ve spent eighty years thinking I knew what I wanted," he said at last, his voice low.
"But the truth is, I’ve been running just as much as you have. From the past, from the future, from the idea of settling down." He took a slow sip of wine, the firelight flickering in his eyes. "But you’re right. I *do* want this. I’ve always wanted it. I just didn’t know how to ask for it."
Ciri watched him, her expression softening just slightly. The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows that stretched across the worn wooden floor. Outside, the night had deepened, the vineyard swallowed by darkness, the only light coming from the warm glow of the hearth.
The firelight painted Zuzran’s face in shifting hues, carving shadows into the lines of his scars. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Ciri’s hand where it rested on the table. The touch was light, tentative—almost as if he were afraid she might pull away.
Ciri didn’t.
Instead, she turned her hand, letting her fingers intertwine with his. The warmth of his skin was familiar, grounding. She had spent so much of her life running—from kings, from monsters, from the weight of her own destiny—that the stillness of this moment felt almost foreign. But not unwelcome.
Not when it came from him.
The silence between them stretched, comfortable and heavy with unspoken words. The fire popped and hissed, sending up a shower of embers that glowed like tiny stars before fading into ash. Outside, the wind rustled through the vines, a soft, rhythmic whisper that carried the scent of earth and ripe grapes.
Zuzran’s thumb traced slow circles over the back of her hand, his touch calloused but gentle. "You’ve changed," he murmured, his voice rough with something that wasn’t quite sadness, but close. "Not just in the way you carry yourself—though that’s different too. But here." He tapped his temple lightly with his free hand.
"In here. You're quieter now. More... deliberate."
Ciri let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound carrying a hint of something bittersweet. "I've had to be," she admitted, her fingers tightening just slightly around his. "The world doesn't stop for anyone, Zuzran. Not even for someone who can dance on the wind."
The firelight caught the silver in her hair as she turned her face toward the window, where the last remnants of twilight painted the sky in deep purples and blues. "I've spent so much time running that I forgot what it was like to stand still.
To *choose* something instead of just reacting to what the world throws at me." She turned her hand in his, their fingers lacing together naturally, as if they had always fit this way. "But I'm here now. And I'm choosing *you*."
Zuzran exhaled, long and slow, like a man who had been holding his breath for years. The firelight danced across the planes of his face, deepening the shadows of his scars into valleys of memory. He had seen so much—battlefields and bloodshed, the slow decay of kingdoms, the fleeting beauty of moments like this one. And yet, none of it had prepared him for the weight of her words.
"I can understand, the power of the elder blood you have. I tapped a little into my own but not at the level you can," he states as he looks at her.
"When I was younger, I used to think I could outrun my past. That if I just kept moving, kept fighting, I could leave it all behind," Zuzran said, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. He traced the rim of his glass with a calloused finger, the firelight catching the silver threads in his dark hair. "But you can't outrun blood, Ciri. Not yours, not mine. It follows you, no matter how far you go."
Ciri watched him, her emerald eyes reflecting the flickering flames "But it does seem like we can finally rest," she said softly, her fingers still tangled with his.
Zuzran exhaled, his chest rising and falling with the weight of years. "Maybe," he admitted, though his voice carried the hesitation of a man who had spent too long expecting the worst. "So, what do you we do now? Do we really get married live happily ever after," Ciri asks as he smiles a little.
"Is that what you want," he asks as he looks at her.
Zuzran’s thumb brushed over the back of her hand, his touch warm and rough. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that made his scars look like old battle maps—each one a story she knew by heart. He had always been a man of few words, but his silence now spoke volumes. The weight of the moment pressed down on them both, thick and heavy as the scent of aged wine and burning oak. "I think I do," Ciri said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think I want that more than anything."
Zuzran's fingers tightened around hers, just slightly, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he didn't hold on tight enough. The firelight painted his face in gold and shadow, highlighting the hard planes of his jaw, the deep lines carved by decades of battle and sorrow. "Then that's what we'll do," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "But not tonight. Not like this."
Ciri tilted her head, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight. "Why not?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"Because," he said, his voice low and rough, "when I marry you, it won’t be in secret. It won’t be in some quiet corner of the world where no one knows our names. It’ll be in the heart of Toussaint, where the wine flows like rivers and the air smells of roses and ripe grapes. Where the people who matter will see us stand before them and swear our lives to each other."
Ciri’s breath caught in her throat. The firelight flickered in her emerald eyes, turning them into twin pools of molten green. "You’re serious," she said, though it wasn’t a question. She knew him too well to think he would joke about something like this.
"I am, I am sure that everyone who matters to you would want to be there," he states as he looks at her.
"You know, the ones who have been there for you through everything," he states as he looks at her.
Ciri exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around his. "You’re really doing this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I am," he said, his voice low and steady. Tonight, we drink. And we talk.
And we remember," Zuzran finished, raising his glass in a silent toast.
The firelight caught the deep ruby hue of the wine as Ciri lifted her own glass, her fingers brushing against his as she did. The contact sent a jolt through her—something electric, something *alive*—that made her breath catch in her throat. She had spent so much of her life running, fighting, surviving. But this? This was something else entirely.
She took a slow sip, the wine rich and velvety on her tongue, the warmth of it spreading through her chest like a slow, steady ember. "You really think they'd all come?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.
The firelight flickered across her face, casting shadows that made her emerald eyes glow like captured stars. He took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving hers. "Of course they would," he said, as if the answer were obvious. "Yennefer would come, even if she had to drag herself from the depths of Aretuza. Geralt would be there, though he’d probably grumble the whole time about how weddings are a waste of good ale. And Dandelion—" He chuckled, the sound rough but warm.
"He’d probably write a ballad about it before the vows were even spoken."
Ciri laughed, the sound light and bright, cutting through the weight of the moment like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "He would," she agreed, her fingers tightening around her glass. "And he’d probably get drunk before the ceremony even started."
Zuzran smirked, swirling the wine in his glass. "That’s why we’d have to keep him away from the wine barrels until after the speeches."
The fire crackled between them, sending up a shower of sparks that danced against the chimney’s blackened stones.
"What about you, who would you invite," Ciri asks as she looked at him.
"Unfortunately all my friends are gone,* he responded as he looked into the fire.* "The ones who were like brothers to me, they all died in the wars or the monsters they fought. The ones who survived are scattered across the world, some even in the wilds of the north," he says as he looked at her.
Ciri's expression softened as she reached out, her fingers brushing against the back of his hand. The warmth of his skin was a stark contrast to the cool night air that seeped in through the cracks of the old stone house. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know."
Zuzran turned his hand over, capturing hers within his own.
"It's fine, we meet when I was trying to decide do I go back and start the school again or do I retire," he replied standing up and walking over to the fire.
He poked at the embers with an iron rod, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The flames flared brighter, casting long shadows across the walls.
Ciri watched him, the firelight painting his profile in gold and shadow. She had known him long enough to recognize the way his shoulders tensed when he spoke of the past, the way his voice roughened when he mentioned those he had lost. "You never told me," she said softly, setting her glass down on the table. "About the others. What happened to them?"
Zuzran exhaled slowly, the breath escaping him like a sigh.
The firelight flickered across his face, deepening the shadows of his scars into valleys of memory. He had spent so long burying the past that it had become second nature—not to forget, but to compartmentalize, to keep the weight of it from crushing him. But now, with Ciri watching him like this, her emerald eyes soft with something like understanding, he found himself wanting to speak.
"The last of them died in a dark demienson, someone who called himself Master Mirror had tricked them," Zuzran said, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. "We were tracking a nest of ghouls in the ruins of a temple, but it was a trap. The Master Mirror had been luring witchers there for years, feeding on their memories, their fears. He made us see the faces of those we'd lost, made us hear their voices." He paused, his fingers tightening around the iron poker. "I was the only one who walked out."
Ciri's breath caught in her throat. She had heard stories of the Master Mirror, of course—whispers in taverns and the hushed warnings of sorcerers.
But to hear Zuzran speak of it now, in the quiet of his vineyard home, made the horror feel closer, more real. The firelight flickered across his face, turning the scars on his hands into jagged rivers of shadow. She could see the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed around the iron poker, as if he were still gripping a sword.
"Did you ever find him?" Ciri asked softly, though she already knew the answer.
Zuzran shook his head, his dark hair catching the light like polished onyx. "No. He vanished after that. But Gearlt ran into him not too long ago," Zuzran says as he sits back down and pours them both some more wine. "You see, he plays with you, offers you something that only he can do. At the end he comes back for payment it is not coin he wants but your soul,"
Zuzran says as he looks at her.
Ciri took a slow sip of her wine, the rich liquid rolling over her tongue like liquid velvet. "And you think he's still out there?" she asked, her voice low and steady.
Zuzran exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. "I know he is," he said, his voice rough with certainty. "But seeing I bested him in his little game he will never bother me again," Zuzran says as he looks at her. "He has no power over me anymore," he says as he looks at her.
Ciri watched him, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face, the way his scars seemed to deepen in the flickering glow. She had seen that look before—the quiet, unshakable resolve of a man who had faced the worst the world could throw at him and still stood. But there was something else in his eyes now, something softer, something that made her heart ache in a way she hadn’t expected.
She reached for her glass, the cool crystal pressing against her fingers as she took another slow sip.