Chapter 3: Information
The bathhouse was a throat of warm, wet stone, breathing out the cloying scent of jasmine and sandalwood. Condensation dripped from ceilings painted with faded gods and monsters, their battles rendered vague and soft by the perpetual steam. Geralt stood in the shadow of a carved pillar, the heat clinging to his leathers like a second skin. He was a statue in the haze, his yellow eyes fixed on the central pool.
Thorn was already in the water, submerged to their chest. The milky surface swirled around them, obscuring and revealing in turns. They looked entirely at ease, head tilted back as if basking, but Geralt could see the fine tension in their neck, the prepared stillness of a predator.
Their mark arrived: Professor Alaric, a man whose robes were too fine for his academic salary, his fingers stained with ink and a nervous greed. He hesitated at the water’s edge, his eyes darting around the empty bathhouse before landing on Thorn. A slow, foolish smile spread across his face.
“The… facilities you requested are quite private,” he said, his voice echoing slightly.
“I do dislike an audience,” Thorn replied, their voice a liquid murmur that seemed to blend with the steam. They didn’t move, but their presence in the water seemed to intensify, a ripple of attention that pulled the professor in. “Unless it’s a select one. Join me?”
Alaric shed his robe with clumsy haste and slid into the water opposite them, keeping a respectable distance that felt instantly ridiculous. The water lapped at his pale, soft shoulders.
“You mentioned a donation to the library,” he began, all business, but his eyes were stuck on Thorn’s face, on the way the steam beaded on their skin.
“I did.” Thorn smiled, a slow, unfurling thing. “But first, I find myself curious about local history. The old families. The ones who preferred… fortresses to farmlands.”
Geralt watched, his senses dialed to a razor’s edge. He couldn’t see the magic, but he could feel it. It was a pressure change in the thick air, a subtle vibration that had nothing to do with the hot springs. It was the sound of a lock being gently probed.
Thorn’s eyes, from across the pool, had shifted to a deep, compelling crimson. They held the professor’s gaze. “There’s a particular castle, I’m told. A few days’ travel into the Murky Woods. Abandoned, but not forgotten.”
Alaric blinked, his expression going slack for a moment. “The… the old Verenian holdfast,” he slurred. His own will was a receding tide. “No one goes there. Cursed, they say.”
“Curses are so often just stories,” Thorn crooned, leaning forward slightly. The water shifted around them. The professor mimicked the movement, leaning in as if drawn by a string. “But I’m not interested in stories. I’m interested in who’s living there now.”
“No one… lives…” The professor’s brow furrowed, a last spark of resistance. “A guardian. A keeper of the… the texts.”
Thorn’s smile didn’t waver, but their eyes flared brighter. The perfumed air grew heavier, harder to breathe. “What texts, Professor?”
Alaric’s mouth worked soundlessly. A trickle of blood seeped from his nose, vivid red against the water’s milky surface. He didn’t seem to notice. “The… the Unmaking. The grimoires of the Alder Covenant.” The words were torn from him, each one a small violation. “The keeper… he guards the source.”
Thorn held the gaze for a moment longer, then sat back. The pressure in the room vanished. The professor gasped, shuddering, and wiped his nose with a trembling hand, staring at the blood in confusion.
“Thank you for your… generosity,” Thorn said, their voice light and casual again, the crimson fading from their eyes to a neutral, pleasant lilac. They rose from the water in a single, fluid motion, water sluicing from their body. They didn’t look back at the dazed, bleeding man as they collected their robe and walked past Geralt’s pillar without a word.
Back in their room at the inn, the silence was a physical thing. The grime of Novigrad felt ingrained in everything, a thin layer of soot and despair that even the bathhouse steam couldn’t wash away. Geralt tossed a small pouch of coins onto the table. It landed with a thick, final clink.
“We leave at first light,” he said, checking the straps on his armor. “The Murky Woods are three days hard ride. We’ll need supplies.”
Thorn, who had been standing by the window, tracing patterns in the grime on the glass, went very still. “No.”
Geralt stopped what he was doing and looked at them.
“We leave tonight,” Thorn said, their back still to him. “Now.”
“You’re in no shape to travel.”
“I’m fine.” The words were automatic, brittle.
“You’re not.” Geralt’s voice was flat. “You just tore a man’s mind open like a letter. I could smell the burn from across the room. We stay. You rest.”
Thorn turned from the window. The glamour was perfect, of course. Their skin glowed, their eyes were clear and bright. They looked vibrant, healthy, ready for a night on the town. “I don’t need your permission, Geralt. Or your coddling. I’ve been managing for centuries without a witcher’s supervision.”
“Is that what you call this? Managing?” Geralt took a step forward, his gaze intense, dissecting. “You’re burning yourself out to keep up the illusion. For who? For him? For me?”
“For myself!” The words cracked out, sharp and sudden. The glimmer around them flickered, just for a fraction of a second, a static tear in the fabric of the lie. In that instant, Geralt saw the shadow of the bruise on their jaw, the deep weariness they were fighting to keep at bay.
The sight of it, that fleeting vulnerability, made something in Geralt’s chest tighten. He gestured at them, a blunt, frustrated motion. “This. This is what I don’t get. You’ll strip a man’s mind bare in a bathhouse. You’ll flirt with anything that moves. You’ll get naked without a second thought. But you can’t even drop the fucking glimmer when we’re alone in a room. You’d rather bleed yourself dry than let me see you’re hurt.”
Thorn stared at him, their expression unreadable. The air between them was charged, thick with things unsaid. The casual flirting, the provocative displays—it was all a distraction, a complex series of locks on a door they never intended to open.
“My body is a tool,” they said finally, their voice dangerously quiet. “My words are tools. They are things I choose to give. What’s underneath… that’s not for you. That’s not for anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only thing that’s truly mine!” The words were a raw, naked thing, stripped of all pretense. They hung in the air between them, stark and revealing. Thorn looked almost as shocked as Geralt felt, their eyes wide, the glamour holding but their guard clearly shattered.
They took a sharp breath, trying to reclaim the moment, to twist it back into something lighter. “Besides, you wouldn’t know what to do with a little genuine intimacy if it bit you on your perpetually furrowed brow.”
Geralt didn’t take the bait. He just looked at them, seeing past the perfect skin and the bright eyes, to the centuries-old creature hiding inside, guarding its one, true possession. The debt between them felt heavier than ever.
“Get some sleep, Thorn,” he said, his voice low and final. He turned and blew out the single candle on the table, plunging the room into darkness. “We leave at first light. That’s not a negotiation.”
In the sudden blackness, he heard the faint, almost silent rustle of fabric as Thorn finally sat on the edge of their bed. The glamour didn’t drop. But for the first time, the silence that settled over them felt less like a wall, and more like a shared, uncomfortable truth.
The next morning, they rode out of Novigrad in a silence that was neither comfortable nor hostile, but observant. Geralt watched Thorn from the corner of his eye, noting the subtle stiffness in their posture as they mounted, the way they held the reins a little too tightly. The perfect glamour was back in place, a brilliant, unwavering lie. They made good time, the city's stink fading into the damp, clean scent of earth and pine.
By late afternoon, the Murky Woods lived up to their name, the canopy thickening to block out the sun and fill the air with a deep, green twilight. The trail became a tunnel of grasping roots and low-hanging branches. Geralt called a halt by a small, stagnant creek, the water barely moving.
"We should push on," he said, his voice cutting through the dense quiet. "This stretch is known for its packs. Nekkers, mostly. Vicious little bastards, and they hunt at dusk."
Thorn slid from their horse with a grace that seemed almost defiant. "Always a delight, your travelogues. Is the next village famed for its plague or its puritans?"
"Just its walls. We're close. Another hour." He was already moving, leading his roach past the water. "We make camp there, not here."
The last sliver of sun vanished, plunging the woods into a deep, textured darkness. The sounds of the forest died around them, leaving only the crunch of their own footsteps and the heavy breathing of the horses. The path began to widen, a promise of the village ahead.
It was the silence that broke first.
A chittering, clicking sound erupted from the shadows to their left, instantly echoed from the right. Dark, wiry shapes dropped from the trees, landing with soft thuds on the damp leaf litter. Their eyes glinted like chips of dirty amber in the gloom.
"Thorn!" Geralt barked, his silver sword already singing from its scabbard.
The first nekker launched itself at Thorn, claws extended. They sidestepped with a dancer's ease, a whip-crack of violet energy sending the creature spinning into a tree trunk with a wet crunch. But two more were already on them, scurrying low and fast.
Geralt moved like a storm, his blade a blur of reflected moonlight. He severed a nekker's arm at the elbow, spun, and opened another's throat. The air filled with the coppery stench of blood and the creatures' high-pitched shrieks. They were everywhere, a swarming, relentless tide of teeth and nails.
Thorn fought with sharp, efficient bursts of force, each concussive blast throwing a nekker back into its brethren. But the magic was flashy, defensive. A claw ripped through their sleeve, and they hissed, more in surprise than pain.
Another wave surged from the deeper darkness, bigger this time, driven by a hulking warrior nekker. It ignored Geralt and barreled straight toward Thorn, who was momentarily flanked. Geralt saw it, was already moving to intercept, but he was a second too slow.
The warrior nekker leapt.
Thorn threw up their hands, a shield of solid amethyst light flaring to life inches from their face. The creature slammed into it with a sound like a cracking bell. The shield held, but the impact drove Thorn to their knees. The glamour flickered, died, and then roared back with a blinding intensity, a desperate, final surge of power.
The violet shield shattered outward, a wave of pure force that vaporized the warrior nekker and flung the creatures nearby into the trees. The woods fell silent, save for the panting of the two travelers and the slow drip of sap from broken branches.
Thorn remained on their knees, head bowed, chest heaving. The brilliant glimmer around them stuttered, faded, and finally vanished completely.
In the sudden, unvarnished moonlight, Geralt saw the truth. The long, angry scratch from the bathhouse coven was an inflamed red line down their jaw. A deep, purple bruise was already blooming across their shoulder where the claw had torn their shirt. Their skin was pale and sheened with a sickly sweat, and their breathing was a ragged, uneven thing.
They looked up at him, their eyes a exhausted, defeated grey. There was no performance left. The door was open, and everything they owned was on display.
Thorn tried to push themselves up from the damp leaves, their arms trembling with the effort. A sharp, indrawn hiss escaped their lips as their left leg buckled beneath them, refusing to take any weight. The ankle was bent at a wrong, sickening angle, already swelling against the leather of their boot.
Geralt was there in two long strides, his presence a solid wall of heat and blood-scent. He crouched, one hand moving to support Thorn’s shoulder. “Don’t.”
“Don’t touch me,” Thorn gritted out, shoving weakly at his chest. Their hand barely had any force behind it. Their eyes screwed shut in concentration, and that familiar, deceitful shimmer began to flicker around their form, attempting to paint over the crippling pain. “I can… I just need a moment.”
“Save it for the town,” Geralt snapped, his voice a low growl that cut through the forest hush. He didn’t argue further. Ignoring their feeble resistance, he hooked one arm under their shoulders and the other behind their knees, lifting them from the ground with a single, efficient motion. Thorn was startlingly light, a bundle of tense, pained energy. He carried them to his horse, Roach, who stood steady and unbothered by the night’s violence.
He settled Thorn into the saddle with a care that belied his rough handling, positioning them as securely as possible. “Hold the pommel.” Thorn’s hands, pale and shaking, gripped the worn leather. Their head drooped, chestnut hair falling across their face, hiding their expression. Geralt swung up behind them, one arm circling their waist to anchor them in place. He could feel the feverish heat of their body through both their clothes, a dangerous warmth that had nothing to do with exertion.
He urged Roach into a steady walk, then a cautious trot, leaving the carnage and the narrow trail behind. Thorn remained a rigid, silent weight against him for the first mile, every jolt of the horse’s gait clearly a fresh agony. Then, slowly, the tension began to leach from their frame as exhaustion and pain won out. Their head lolled back against his shoulder, their breathing shallow and quick.
By the time the flickering torchlight of the village pierced the tree line, the glimmer had returned. It was a thin, shaky veil, but it was there, casting Thorn’s features in that preternaturally perfect light. They straightened with visible effort as they rode past the first thatched huts, their back rod-straight, a faint, charming smile plastered on their face for the few villagers still out in the damp night air.
“See?” they murmured, the words slurring slightly. “Good as new.”
Geralt didn’t reply. He could feel the fine, constant tremor running through their body, a vibration against his chest that betrayed the immense strain of maintaining the facade.
He dismounted at the inn’s stable, a squat, weathered building that promised little in the way of comfort. As he turned to help Thorn down, they were already sliding from the saddle, their movements a deliberate pantomime of ease. Their boot touched the ground, they took a single step, and their leg almost gave way again. They caught themselves on Roach’s flank, their knuckles white.
“I’ve got it,” they said, not looking at him, and pushed off toward the inn’s door, walking with a stiff, hurried gait that was meant to look purposeful but screamed of a desperate retreat.
Geralt paid the stable boy, shouldered both their packs, and followed. He found Thorn already at the door of their rented room, fumbling with the key. Their hand was shaking so badly the metal scraped uselessly against the lock. Geralt reached past them, took the key, and turned it with a solid click.
Thorn practically fell inside, heading straight for the room’s lone bed as if it were a lifeline. They sat on the edge, finally letting their shoulders slump, the false smile dissolving into a grimace of pure relief. The glimmer flickered wildly, like a guttering candle.
Geralt dropped the packs by the door and barred it. The room was small, dominated by the bed and a worn wooden chair. A single candle on a rough-hewn table cast long, dancing shadows.
“Let me see the leg,” Geralt said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He rummaged in his pack for a roll of clean linen and a small clay jar of healing salve.
Thorn’s head shot up, their eyes wide with a flash of panic. The glamour solidified for a moment, showing a perfectly intact boot. “It’s fine. I told you. I just need to sleep.”
“You’re not fine. You can barely stand.” Geralt didn’t move from his spot by the table, but his presence filled the small room. “That glimmer is eating you alive from the inside out. Let it go.”
“Why do you care?” The question was sharp, a defensive lunge born of utter exhaustion. “You have your destination. The castle in the woods. The keeper of the texts. My job is done.”
“Your job isn’t done until you’re not a liability.” He took a step toward the bed. “And I care about debts. Now, the leg.”
Thorn looked away, toward the room’s single, grimy window. Their jaw was clenched tight. For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged pull of their breath. Then, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of their being, the glimmer finally died.
It didn’t flicker or fade. It simply vanished.
The perfect, unblemished skin gave way to the reality of the deep scratch on their jaw, the lurid purple bruise spreading across their shoulder, and the pale, sweat-sheened exhaustion that made them look ancient. Their left foot was still encased in the boot, the leather straining ominously over the swollen joint.
They didn’t look at him. Their gaze remained fixed on the dark window, their pride lying in tatters between them on the rough wool blanket.
Geralt moved to the floor at the foot of the bed. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving them every opportunity to protest. He reached for their injured leg.
Thorn flinched.
Thorn flinched.
It was a tiny, involuntary spasm, a creature recoiling from a perceived threat. Their eyes, wide and grey with pain, darted to Geralt’s hands before fixing back on the window. “Careful, Wolf,” they managed, their voice thin. “I bite when cornered.”
Geralt’s hands paused. He didn’t retreat. “Noted.”
He began working the boot off with a slow, relentless patience that felt more intimate than any flirtation. The leather was tight, the swelling having seized the joint. Thorn sucked in a sharp breath through their teeth, their fingers twisting in the rough wool blanket.
“So this is your idea of a good time,” they gritted out, a strained attempt at their old levity. “Helpless creatures in your debt, at your mercy. Should I call you ‘master’?”
“Would it help?” Geralt asked, his focus entirely on the task. He applied steady pressure, his grip firm but not brutal.
A pained laugh escaped Thorn. “You’re impossible.”
The boot came free with a final, gentle pull. The ankle was a mess of swollen, discolored flesh. Geralt examined it with a clinical touch, his fingers probing the bones with a precision that was somehow both impersonal and deeply caring.
“It’s not broken. Badly sprained.” He reached for the clay jar of salve. “This will sting.”
“Everything does,” Thorn whispered, their gaze still averted.
As Geralt smoothed the cool, herb-scented salve over the heated skin, Thorn finally risked a glance down. They watched his hands, those same hands that could wield a silver sword with devastating force, now working with a surgeon’s control. The contrast was unsettling.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” they said, the flirtation softer now, almost genuine. “All those years of patching yourself up in the wilds?”
“Something like that.” He began wrapping the linen bandage, his movements efficient. “Had a teacher. An old woman in a village near Kaer Morhen. She said witchers only knew how to stitch holes, not heal them.”
Thorn went very still. This was new. Geralt offering a piece of his past, unprompted. It was a distraction, and a brilliant one. “What was her name?”
“Didn’t have one. Everyone just called her Granny. She had a cat with one eye that hated me.” He secured the bandage with a tight, neat knot. “She’d smack my hands with a spoon if I used too much pressure.”
A real smile, small and weary, touched Thorn’s lips. “I’d have liked to see that. The great White Wolf, scolded by an old woman with a spoon.”
“She was right.” Geralt’s work was done. He sat back on his heels, looking up at them. Their eyes met, and the air in the small room shifted, growing warmer, charged with a quiet understanding that had nothing to do with debts or monsters. “Sometimes the job isn’t about causing pain. It’s about ending it.”
Thorn held his gaze, the grey in their eyes softening. The defensiveness had melted away, leaving something raw and quiet in its place. They looked at the bandage, a clean, white contrast to their pale, bruised skin. “It doesn’t hurt as much now.”
Geralt nodded. He reached out, not to touch their leg, but to gently push their shoulder. “Lie down.”
There was no resistance this time. Thorn let themselves be guided back onto the thin mattress, their body sinking into the straw filling with a sigh of utter surrender. They looked up at the cracked ceiling, then back at Geralt, who remained on the floor beside the bed, a solid, silent sentinel in the flickering candlelight.
“Don’t suppose you take requests for bedtime stories,” they murmured, their eyelids already growing heavy.
“Go to sleep, Thorn.”