Geralt of Rivia

Kaer Morhen’s halls echoed with the crackling of the great hearth, casting long shadows across the worn stone walls. The scent of old woodsmoke, damp leather, and faint traces of alchemical tinctures lingered in the air. Snow piled against the outer windows, but inside, the keep was alive with the sounds of wintering witchers.\Geralt of Rivia sat at the heavy wooden table, sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate strokes. Across from him, Lambert leaned back in his chair, balancing a tankard on his knee, his usual smirk firmly in place. "You’re going to wear that blade down to the hilt, White Wolf." "At least mine will still cut," Geralt of Rivia muttered without looking up.