Witcher Gonna Do

The walk back to the village was quiet, but the silence wasn’t peaceful. Beneath it tension simmered. An undercurrent Geralt couldn’t ignore. The sun dipped lower casting the path ahead in a wash of orange light. However, Geralt’s focus wasn’t on the fading day. His thoughts circled Kakashi.

What he’d seen today wasn’t just a strange twist on a Witcher sign. That fireball before with the nekkers was one thing, but this? Strong enough to decapitate a chort and completely new. The fireball could have been a stronger version of Igni, but this wind-blade thing didn’t have a base Geralt could recognize. Whatever Kakashi was tapping into didn’t play by the rules Geralt knew. The kid didn’t even use anything similar to the basic signs from what he could see of the sequence. Not Quen, not Aard, not any of the others. Just those overcomplicated hand gestures. 

Going purely on the effects, the way the wind force had halted the chort’s charge had some similarity with aard but the following windblade didn’t have a base in anything Geralt was aware of. From the series of hand signs Kakashi had made, not a single one was recognizable. For an attempted recreation of a Witcher, whoever made the kid had gotten more than a few things mixed up.

Geralt frowned. That power hadn’t felt right either. It wasn’t how Witchers worked. It felt… off. Wrong. Like someone had a complete misconception of what signs were supposed to do and ended up with something dangerously evolved in their attempt to recreate them. Something likely unstable. Whoever made Kakashi clearly didn’t understand Witcher magic, but they’d tried anyway. If he was going to get anywhere in determining if the kid was actually a Witcher or a new monster then he’d need some answers.

“The fuck was that back there?” Geralt’s words sliced through the quiet as he turned to Kakashi, who walked a pace behind. No use staying quiet about it.

Kakashi didn’t answer right away, his face as unreadable as ever. Calm. Collected. Too composed for a kid his age. Geralt didn’t sense fear or hesitation either, just calculation. Always calculating.

“I handled it,” Kakashi said, his tone flat, as if that explanation would satisfy Geralt. Like that was supposed to end the conversation.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I asked.” He stepped closer. His voice was low, sharp. “That wasn’t a sign.” Geralt knew that much, he just needed to know what it was. And maybe, just maybe he could get one step closer to figuring out who’d tried to revive the craft. Find out who succeeded in the impossible, yet managed to fuck it up this badly. “What was that?” Geralt barked, voice harsh with the expectation of being answered, “Where did you learn it?”

A pause. Kakashi’s visible eye flicked to him, thoughtful, guarded. But Geralt wasn’t going to let him slip by this time. After a beat, Kakashi met Geralt’s gaze, his voice calm but deliberate. “My father taught me.”

Geralt blinked. His father?

He frowned, the words not making sense at first. “Biological?” It wasn’t just disbelief—Witchers couldn’t have children—but something about the factual way Kakashi had said those words unsettled him. Maybe he was a child surprise.

Kakashi gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. Well, fuck. 

Geralt took a step back, frowning as he tried to process the information. “… and your mutations?”

Kakashi gave another small nod, confirming it. “Also from him.”

The words rattled him. Witchers didn’t have children. Couldn’t. The trial of grasses made damn sure of that. Unless it was a child of surprise which Kakashi had just denied. So if Kakashi’s father had passed this power to him, it meant something else entirely. Whoever Kakashi’s father was, he wasn’t a Witcher and if he was, then he’d still put a child of surprise obtained young enough to think himself a biological son, through the trial of grasses. And worse, this man had taught Kakashi that twisted version of Witcher signs, signs Geralt had never seen before, had never heard of before. For those signs to be so unknown, they couldn’t have existed for long. But Kakashi already seemed to be an expert at using them. The boy was young, likely barely older than a decade, but already a master at that unknown craft. Those signs were the product of trial and error and for Kakashi to know and use those unknown signs so well? It meant one thing—Kakashi’s father had willingly experimented on his own son. Young enough that Kakashi wouldn’t have known what was happening or been able to question why. He’d twisted Kakashi into something… different, even by Witcher standards, passed down untested techniques—and from his earlier confession—separated Kakashi from the Path. A grievous thing in a Witcher’s line of work.

Geralt’s mouth tightened in disgust. It was bad enough when men twisted themselves into monsters in pursuit of power. But doing that to your own son—to a son so young? Unforgivable.

“What the hell kind of man was your father?” Geralt muttered, more to himself than Kakashi. The words came out with a trace of disgust. He couldn’t help it. To turn an orphan into a Witcher was bad enough. To turn one’s own son? When a normal life should have still been an option? That was even worse. To experiment with it and revive a dead process just for the sake of transforming one’s own child? That was something horrid. Something Geralt could despise.

Kakashi’s face didn’t change, but Geralt noticed a tightness in his jaw. A tension that suggested he wasn’t interested in discussing it further. “He was… protective,” Kakashi said, his voice quiet. There was something else behind the words. Something unsaid. “And he trained me to be strong.”

Geralt felt a knot tighten in his chest. Strong? Or a weapon? “Strong? Or dangerous? Because what you’re using, they’re not signs. Those are the result of experimentation.”

For the first time, Kakashi’s calm cracked. A flicker of emotion—anger or confusion, maybe—crossed his face. “I’m not an experiment,” Kakashi said firmly, his voice sharp but steady. “I’m alive. That’s enough.”

Geralt exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of those words. Kakashi wouldn’t acknowledge anything wrong with how things had happened. Whatever Kakashi’s father had done to him, it had warped the kid into something caught between Witcher and… something else. He wasn’t just alive; he was changed, and by someone who didn’t understand the balance Witchers maintained with their powers. Someone who had twisted that balance into something volatile. And Kakashi fully believed it was necessary.

“You’re alive, for now,” Geralt muttered, turning his back to Kakashi and resuming the walk toward the village. “Whoever made you didn’t know what the hell they were doing.”

The kid didn’t respond, but the silence felt heavy, like there was more Kakashi wanted to say. More he wouldn’t say. Geralt could feel it. The boy wasn’t going to admit weakness—not to him, not yet—but there was something wrong with the techniques he was using. They didn’t belong in the hands of a Witcher, and definitely not in the hands of a child.

The village came into view, the glow of lanterns brightening the horizon, but Geralt’s thoughts were still tangled. Whoever Kakashi’s father had been, he’d taken something pure, something essential to Witchers, and twisted it. And worse, he’d done it to his own son. Whoever Kakashi’s father was, he’d crossed a line. That kind of cruelty made Geralt’s blood run cold.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to Kakashi again, the weight of that knowledge heavy in his gut. “We’ll talk more,” he said, his voice quieter, but firm. “Soon.”

Kakashi didn’t answer, his face still impassive, but Geralt could see the tension in his shoulders. There was more to this than Kakashi was letting on. But Geralt wasn’t going to let this go. Not when danger was this close. Not when it involved the boy’s mutations and the possible new progenitor that had tried to revive the Witcher mutagen.

He’d get to the bottom of it. One way or another.

The inn was warm and dimly lit, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. The scent of stew and stale ale filled the air, mingling with the quiet murmur of voices from the other patrons. Geralt and Kakashi sat at a small table, their bowls of stew mostly untouched. Silence had settled between them since their return, each lost in thought. But Geralt wasn’t about to let this go tonight. He needed answers.

He took a slow sip from his tankard, watching Kakashi from the corner of his eye. The kid looked calm, but Geralt had seen enough to spot the tension—the way his hand hovered a little too close to his pouch, the barely noticeable stiffness in his posture. Kakashi wasn’t easily rattled, but he was right now.

Setting his drink down, Geralt leaned forward slightly. “Your father taught you those techniques.”

Kakashi didn’t look up from his bowl, but his eye shifted slightly, acknowledging the question. “Yes,” he said simply.

Geralt waited for an explanation, but the kid stayed silent, his face blank as he continued to sniff at his food before taking each bite. Geralt frowned, but when nothing more came, he pressed on, his voice low but firm. “Those signs… don’t pull from chaos.”

Kakashi glanced up briefly, his face calm, though Geralt could sense some confusion beneath it. “No,” Kakashi admitted, his voice measured. “They don’t.”

Geralt’s frown deepened, his mind racing. “Then what the hell do they pull from? It's not any magic I’ve seen.”

Kakashi hesitated, A pause. Kakashi’s eye turned toward the fire, as if weighing his words. “They pull from me.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. From him? It made a twisted kind of sense. Yennifer had once told Geralt that using chaos pulled on one’s life force. Witcher spells also pulled on Chaos, but they were stabilized by a Witcher’s mutations. The way Kakashi’s powers worked—they weren’t like normal Witcher signs, simple spells that used chaos quickly and effectively. They drained the boy himself, chunks of his life force, in exchange for bursts of powerful effects, completely skipping Chaos entirely.

Geralt leaned back, a wave of disgusted detachment settling in. If Kakashi’s power came directly from his life force, it would explain why it felt foreign and why it tired the kid out so quickly. To pull on one’s life force like that… a normal human wouldn’t survive it. But a mutant? Maybe, but not for long. A perfect way to develop a new form of magic, while also reviving a lost method to create an army of enhanced people that wouldn’t live long enough to betray the creator.

Whoever Kakashi’s father had been, he’d willingly subjected his own son to something even worse than the trials of grasses, without even the Path to guide him. The only explanation for Kakashi’s mutations, his abilities, was that his father had put him through a partially revived and twisted Trials of the Grasses, a process most weren’t meant to survive. And when Kakashi survived, mutated beyond human, he was not given signs that would help him survive. He wasn’t given the tools he would need for the life forced on him. He was taught something vain. More powerful in terms of effect sure—but draining him and shortening his life every time he used it. The kid was the epitome of the corruption of everything a Witcher was meant to be. All at the hands of someone Kakashi called a father.

He leaned back, disgusted but trying to piece it together. “So… your father did this to you. The mutations and the techniques.”

Kakashi didn’t react at first, but Geralt saw something flicker beneath the calm. Resentment? No—something else. “He did what he thought was right,” Kakashi said quietly. There was no anger, just a hard edge to his voice. Kakashi was getting dangerously close to being done with this conversation.

Geralt shook his head, his stomach twisting. “Right? For who? The ones who don’t survive those trials are the lucky ones…” His voice lowered, laced with anger. “And he did it to his own son.”

This time, Kakashi’s eye hardened, but he didn’t lash out. He put his spoon down, leaning back in his chair, gaze fixed on the fire. “He didn’t do anything—didn’t teach me anything—without a reason. He believed in survival…” Kakashi paused then, the rest coming out closer to a whisper. “Even if it cost me everything else.”

Geralt sat back, frown deepening, watching the boy carefully. He’d heard this story before. Sacrificing everything for survival, for power. But Kakashi’s father hadn’t just trained the kid— he’d experimented on him, turning his son into what most would call a monster. He had fucked up the process for creating Witchers, had revived it in all the wrong ways, and then subjected his son to it.

“Survival,” Geralt said bitterly. “At what cost?” He looked at Kakashi’s young, battle-worn face. “Your life?”

The thought sickened Geralt, but what disturbed him even more was that Kakashi seemed to accept it. He wasn’t angry at his father for doing this to him, not in the way Geralt expected. There was no resentment, no bitterness for the training at least—only respect for the man who had shaped him.

“Besides, the energy regenerates…” the kid finally responded. His head lifted and the mask of indifference cracked beneath the heat in his eyes. For as much as his father had likely put him through, it seemed the kid was done allowing Geralt to insult the man. “As long as I don’t use too much before it can regenerate, I won’t die from it.”

There it was. Defensiveness. Anger, even. Geralt could hear it in his voice, see it in his posture. The kid was protective of his father’s memory, no matter what the man had done to him.

“You respected him,” Geralt said quietly, his tone softer now. 

Kakashi glanced at him, and Geralt looked deeper and saw what he’d been looking for—wounds, barely hidden. “I did,” Kakashi replied, almost a whisper. His voice carried the weight of old, torn, and still bleeding wounds. “I still do.”

Geralt didn’t respond immediately, letting the words hang between them. He understood respect for the past, even when it was painful. But this… Kakashi’s father had shaped him into a weapon, twisted everything the Witchers had stood for without even teaching him the reason they existed. Yet the kid still held onto that respect. Maybe it was because his father had given him a sense of purpose. Without the belonging that he would have had if he were made in a proper school, belonging with his biological father would have been enough to twist the mind of a young kid. Or maybe it was because, despite everything, Kakashi still believed that his father’s way of survival was the only way.

Geralt rubbed a hand over his face, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever he did… you survived it,” he said finally, quieter. “Not many do.”

Kakashi didn’t respond, but the silence between them spoke volumes. They sat there, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them, both lost in their own thoughts.

Geralt’s mind churned. This power—this dangerous, twisted version of signs—was likely unstable from the way the boy had stumbled afterwards, and Kakashi’s reliance on it was only going to lead to more problems down the line. Geralt could see it, plain as day. The kid needed help. Proper training. And there was only one place Geralt could think of where Kakashi might stand a chance of learning control.

Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir would know what to do. The old man had trained Witchers for centuries. If anyone could help with this… it was him.

“We head north tomorrow,” Geralt said finally, his voice low, decisive. “To Kaer Morhen. The place where I was trained.” He watched Kakashi for a reaction, but the kid simply turned, staring into the fire, his expression once again impassive.

“Vesemir,” Geralt continued, “the man who trained me—he’s still there. If anyone can help you, it’s him.”

Kakashi didn’t respond immediately, but Geralt could see the wheels turning in his head. The kid was wary, cautious as always, but Geralt knew he couldn’t do this alone. Whatever Kakashi’s father had done to him, it left a mark—one that wouldn’t heal on its own. A lack of knowledge that couldn’t be bridged by just Geralt. And if they didn’t get help soon, Geralt wasn’t sure how long Kakashi’s life force would last. Geralt wasn’t sure how much he trusted the part about life force regenerating, not with how strong those attacks had been.

For now, Geralt let the conversation rest. The night wore on, the fire crackling softly as they finished their meal in silence. They’d start heading north in the morning. 

Winter could come early this year.

The morning light filtered through the shutters, casting soft golden beams into the room. Geralt was already up, packing the last of his things with quiet efficiency. The inn was peaceful at this hour, most of the other patrons still fast asleep or only just stirring.

Kakashi, on the other hand, sat at the small table near the window, picking at the last bits of breakfast. His eye flicked toward the sunlight now and then, but he hadn’t said much since they’d woken. There was a certain air about him, a kind of quiet tension that Geralt recognized immediately.

Pouting, Geralt thought, watching the kid from the corner of his eye. It was subtle, but it was there—the furrow of his brow, the way he was unusually silent, even the way he seemed more intent on pushing his food around than eating it. Clearly, their conversation from the night before still lingered in Kakashi's mind.

Geralt remembered enough about Witcher trainees and when he was one himself to know the signs. The way the boy carried himself this morning, slightly withdrawn, yet focused—he was thinking, plotting even. Geralt knew that look all too well. He and Eskel used to make that look when they were young. He’s going to try something. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Kakashi had tried to slip away. But it wasn’t going to happen again if Geralt could help it.

“Ready to move?” Geralt’s voice broke the silence, his tone neutral as he slung his pack over his shoulder.

Kakashi nodded, not looking up from his half-finished plate. “Yeah.” His tone was as calm as ever, but there was an edge to it—one Geralt wasn’t about to ignore.

“Good.” Geralt stood by the door, watching as Kakashi finally pushed his plate away and got to his feet, pulling on his cloak. The kid’s movements were practiced, but there was a slight hesitation that Geralt caught. He’s definitely planning something.

As they stepped outside, the cold morning air hit them, the kind of sharp chill that reminded Geralt they were headed north. They had a long road ahead, but it was more than the distance that Geralt was concerned about.

He glanced at Kakashi, who was walking a little too casually beside him. “If you’re thinking of running again,” Geralt said, his voice low and casual, “don’t bother. I’ll find you.”

Kakashi didn’t flinch, though his eye narrowed ever so slightly. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

That’s what you said last time too, Geralt thought, but he didn’t push it. He knew better than to force a conversation Kakashi wasn’t ready for. But that didn’t mean he’d stop watching.

As they made their way down the dirt road, the forest closing in around them, Geralt kept a close eye on Kakashi. The kid might be quick, but Geralt had been through this too many times to let him slip away unnoticed. Let him try, he thought, scanning the trees ahead. I’ll be ready.

He was not.

The journey north had been uneventful for the most part, the cold creeping in bit by bit as they traveled deeper into the wilds. They had been traveling for a week by this point and after their last rest stop, morning had turned into afternoon, and the sun sat low in the sky now, its light casting long shadows over the narrow mountain pass. The terrain had grown more treacherous over the last few miles—the once well-worn road had given way to jagged rocks and steep cliffs, their path threading precariously between them. The wind howled through the pass, sharp and biting, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth.

Geralt kept his eyes on the path ahead, though his thoughts lingered on the boy walking beside him. Kakashi had been quiet, the tension between them palpable since their conversation the week before. It was like traveling with a coiled spring, waiting for the right moment to snap. Geralt didn’t trust the silence, especially not when Kakashi was involved. He had seen the boy’s pouting and brooding for nearly the full week, and while he hadn’t said anything, Geralt knew the kid was plotting.

He’s going to try something. It’s only a matter of time.

The path wound upward, the rocks beneath their boots shifting with every step. Above them, the jagged cliffs loomed like sentinels, their peaks shrouded in mist. The air was thinner here, cooler, with the occasional gust of wind sending loose stones skittering down the slopes. The mountains were dangerous, even for experienced travelers. One wrong move could send a person tumbling down to their death.

Geralt glanced sideways at Kakashi, who seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the rocky cliffside ahead. His posture had shifted slightly, his steps just a bit too deliberate, too measured. The kid wasn’t just thinking anymore—he was preparing. Geralt’s instincts sharpened, his senses attuned to every subtle shift in the boy’s movements. It’s coming.

The pass narrowed as they reached a particularly steep section, the path barely wide enough for two to walk side by side. The mountain walls towered on either side, the sky above a narrow strip of pale blue. The wind picked up, whipping through the pass with a bone-chilling howl. It was here that Geralt felt the tension snap.

Kakashi suddenly stopped, his head tilting ever so slightly as if listening to something Geralt couldn’t hear. Before Geralt could say a word, the boy moved—fast. Without warning, Kakashi darted forward, his body a blur of motion. But it wasn’t just his speed that caught Geralt off guard— Kakashi’s hands flashed through an unfamiliar sign, and then, in an instant, Kakashi’s feet were no longer on the ground. The kid began running vertically up the cliff, his body defying gravity as he sprinted upward like a spider scaling a wall.

Geralt’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments, surprise flickering across his face. Shit. Didn’t see that coming.

Kakashi was fast, far faster than any human—or Witcher—should be, his small frame practically flying up the side of the mountain with ease. The boy’s movements precise, his body sticking to the rock like it was the most natural thing in the world. In mere moments, Kakashi had scaled half the height of the cliff, his form a blur against the rocky surface.

“Damn it!” Geralt cursed under his breath, already moving. He had known Kakashi would try something, but this—this was beyond what he expected. Geralt didn’t waste time, his instincts kicking in as his hand shot out, fingers curling in preparation for a Sign.

“Aard!” he growled, sending a blast of telekinetic energy toward the cliffside.

The shockwave hit the rock with a low rumble, causing dust and loose stones to break free. The debris tumbled down the cliffside, and Kakashi’s form wavered, his steps faltering for a moment. But to Geralt’s frustration, the boy adjusted mid-movement, his hand brushing the cliffside as if steadying himself, before launching forward again. He was already halfway up.

“Shit,” This kid...

Geralt’s boots crunched against the loose gravel as he pushed forward, keeping his eyes on Kakashi’s rapid ascent. He wouldn’t let the boy get away. Not here. Not like this. His mind raced through options, another Sign forming in his mind. He needed to slow Kakashi down, force him back to the ground before he vanished into the heights of the cliffs. The wind howled through the pass, and Geralt’s eyes narrowed as he focused his power again, already preparing another Sign. The boy had some serious skill, but Geralt wasn’t about to let him slip away that easily. He had fought monsters, sorcerers, and creatures beyond reason. This kid might be fast, but Geralt had dealt with worse.

His hand flashed out again, this time forming the Sign of Yrden. A violet pulse of energy spread out from his hands, rippling across the cliffside forming a glowing trap that shimmered beneath the rocky surface. The arcane energy rippled upward, seeking to snare Kakashi’s movements. If the boy made contact, it would slow him, weaken his ability to run, and give Geralt the window he needed.

But Kakashi didn’t stop. In a move that surprised even Geralt, the boy kicked off the rock face, propelling himself even higher with an acrobatic twist. He soared through the air, twisting his body to evade the Yrden trap, aiming for a narrow ledge farther up the cliffside. For a brief moment, Geralt thought Kakashi might actually make it. Geralt’s eyes narrowed. Clever, he thought, his mind already racing. Kakashi was trying to gain enough distance to vanish into the mountains, to lose him in the twisting maze of cliffs and ridges. The kid had thought this through, planned it carefully. But Geralt wasn’t about to give him that chance.

Fast, but not fast enough, Geralt thought grimly, already preparing his next move. Kakashi had underestimated how quickly Yrden could be recast.

“Yrden!” Geralt barked, the Sign flashing out again, this time aimed directly at Kakashi’s landing point.

The moment Kakashi’s feet touched the ledge, the Yrden trap flared to life, its violet tendrils of energy latching onto him like ethereal chains. The boy’s momentum slowed, his body jerking as if caught in invisible chains. Kakashi tried to fight it, his eye narrowing as he struggled against the arcane force, but the trap held. His movements became sluggish, his legs dragging as the magic anchored him to the spot.

Geralt was quick to follow up with another Yrden on the pass in front of him before aiming the sign for Reverte at Kakashi. The energy swept forth like reaching hands as they tore Kakashi from his spot stuck to the cliff side. The boy let out a small squeak of surprise before he was deposited once more in a Yrden trap back on the path.

Geralt was already there, closing the distance with long, determined strides. “That’s enough,” he growled, his voice hard, the effort of casting four powerful Signs in quick succession tensing his muscles and weighing on his stamina.

Kakashi’s eye flicked toward Geralt, and for a split second, Geralt saw a flash of something—determination, frustration, defiance. The kid had clearly been counting on this escape, and now that it was failing, he wasn’t about to give up without a fight. 

But Geralt wasn’t in the mood for games. The boy made a desperate attempt to break free, pulling a knife from his belt and aiming it at the Yrden trap. With a swift motion, Kakashi slashed at the violet energy, trying to sever the arcane tendrils holding him down.

It didn’t work.

Kakashi twisted, trying one last time to get away, but Geralt was faster. The Witcher reached out, his hand locking around Kakashi’s shoulder just as the boy’s struggle failed. With a sharp yank, Geralt pulled him back firmly into Geralt’s hold. Kid wouldn’t be getting away now.

“I said, that’s enough!” Geralt’s voice was sharp, frustration and exhaustion simmering beneath the surface as he kept a firm hold on the boy’s shoulders.

Kakashi struggled for a moment, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But there was no real fight left in him now. His body trembled slightly from the exertion, the toll of using that technique catching up to him. He had pushed himself too hard. His eye flicked to the ground, then back to Geralt, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before his posture sagged— something like resignation taking the place of the previous fight.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The wind whistled through the mountain pass, kicking up bits of dust and snow. Geralt’s chest heaved, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He could feel the boy’s exhaustion, the way Kakashi’s limbs had gone slack under his grip. The kid had put up a hell of a fight.

“You thought you could run,” Geralt said, his voice quieter now, though no less edged with frustration. “After everything we talked about.”

Kakashi didn’t respond right away, his eye flicking to the ledge where he had nearly made his escape. His expression was tight, his jaw clenched, but there was a weariness in his gaze. He had given it his best shot, but even he knew it hadn’t been enough.

Finally, the boy muttered under his breath, “I had to try.”

Geralt released his grip slightly, his own frustration easing a fraction. “Fuck,” he replied, his tone less harsh, though still firm. “That shit won’t work. Not with me.”

Kakashi’s shoulders slumped, the last of his defiance fading into reluctant resignation. His eye darted toward the mountainside again, but Geralt could see it now—the realization that there was no easy way out of this. Not today. Not against Geralt.

With a final nod, Geralt stepped back, keeping Kakashi in his hold, just in case. “Let’s go,” he said, turning back toward the path. “We’re not staying here.”

Kakashi followed, his steps quieter now, the lingering defiance gone from his posture. As they continued through the mountain pass, Geralt kept his senses sharp, half-expecting another attempt, though he knew it wouldn’t come. Not yet.

Not after this.

The journey after Kakashi’s failed escape attempt was heavy with silence, the only sounds were the crunch of boots against gravel and the occasional gust of wind howling through the mountain pass. Geralt kept one hand on Kakashi’s shoulder, his grip firm but not forceful, guiding the boy down the path. Kakashi walked beside him, his head lowered, his face set in a neutral expression, but Geralt could see the quiet weight in his movements—the boy had pushed himself with the attempted escape, and been worn down further by the long walk afterwards.

As the sun dipped lower, the landscape around them began to shift once more. The jagged cliffs gave way to open terrain, the path widening as they descended toward the valley. In the distance, the outline of a town came into view, nestled at the base of the mountains. The first signs of civilization they had seen in days. Tucked between the hills, it was modest in size, its cluster of buildings surrounding a central square where villagers milled about, going through their late-afternoon routines. The scent of wood smoke and roasting meat drifted on the wind, a welcome change from the harshness of the mountain pass.

Geralt glanced at Kakashi, still keeping a firm grip on the boy’s shoulder. Though Kakashi had stopped struggling after their confrontation, Geralt wasn’t taking any chances. He had expected more defiance, more resistance, but since that attempt, Kakashi had been unusually quiet, only offering the occasional mutter under his breath.

The Witcher kept his focus on the task at hand, scanning the town for any potential dangers. The place looked peaceful enough, but Geralt knew better than to trust appearances. They would get supplies, find a place to rest, and move on in the morning.

"That’s our stop for the night," Geralt said, glancing at Kakashi. "We’ll rest, get supplies. Then we continue heading north at first light."

Kakashi didn’t respond at first, his eye fixed ahead on the town. His silence was slightly unnerving, but after the stunt he’d pulled, neither Geralt nor Kakashi were interested in small talk.

By the time they reached the town, the sun had nearly set, casting the sky in shades of pink and orange. The streets were relatively quiet, save for the clinking of metal from a nearby blacksmith and the faint murmur of voices coming from the inn. Geralt guided Kakashi toward the inn, his thoughts focused on finding a place to rest and a meal to fill their stomachs. After the week they’d had, both of them needed it. 

The townspeople gave Geralt wary glances, their eyes flicking between his swords and his wolf medallion. Nothing new. But as they approached the building, a sudden commotion erupted from the other side of the street—a man shouting, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone running. Geralt’s instincts kicked in, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword as he turned toward the noise.

"Stop, you bastard!" a furious voice rang out, followed by the crash of wooden crates tumbling to the ground.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the figure weaving through the crowd, dodging pedestrians and knocking over anything in his path. It was Jaskier, his flamboyant blue doublet fluttering behind him as he sprinted toward them, his face pale with panic.

“Damned bard!” the nobleman shouted, wheezing between words. “I’ll have your head!”

"Not again," Geralt muttered under his breath, already piecing together what was happening. A quick glance behind Jaskier revealed a red-faced nobleman in hot pursuit, shouting obscenities about an affair, his fists clenched in rage.

Kakashi, who had been silent and brooding for most of their journey, suddenly snickered—a sharp, amused sound that caught Geralt off guard. It was the first time the kid had laughed since Geralt found him. The sudden shift in the boy’s demeanor took Geralt by surprise. Kakashi’s steps were lighter and for the first time since they’d left the mountains, Geralt didn’t feel like the kid wanted to bolt. He didn’t say anything at first, but the glint in his eye and the faint smirk on his lips told Geralt exactly what he thought of the situation.

“It’s the spitting image of IchaIcha,” Kakashi remarked quietly, casually, hands tucked behind his back. His voice had been a whisper and his eyes glinting as though he hadn’t intended to be heard but the ridiculousness of the situation had demanded comment.

Geralt cast him a sideways glance, surprised by the sudden change in the boy’s demeanor. Kakashi’s posture relaxed, and for the first time in a week, the tension in his shoulders eased. It was the most animated he’d seen him in days. Kakashi’s relaxed posture was almost disturbing—with how tense the boy had been since Geralt met him, it was like meeting a completely different person for the first time.

In fact, Kakashi looked so relaxed at that moment, it felt like he was no longer even thinking about escaping. Maybe it was Jaskier’s absurdity that put him at ease. He was still holding back laughter as they watched Jaskier narrowly avoid a fruit stand, much to the vendor’s dismay.

Geralt shook his head, his lips twitching despite himself. “You think this is funny?”

Kakashi giggled—a very strange sound—clearly enjoying the spectacle. “It’s the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”

Before Geralt could respond, Jaskier spotted them. His eyes lit up, and without missing a beat, he dashed toward Geralt and Kakashi, throwing himself behind the Witcher like a human shield. A frantic grin spread across his face. 

"Geralt! Old friend! Just in time!" Jaskier gasped dramatically, clutching at Geralt’s arm as if his life depended on it. It probably did. “You’ve got to help me! This man is unreasonable!”

Geralt sighed, his hand dropping from his sword hilt as Jaskier panted heavily, fingers digging into the leather of Geralt’s armor while he tried to catch his breath. "What did you do this time?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" Jaskier protested, though the guilty gleam in his eyes told a different story. "Merely... a misunderstanding with a rather overzealous husband."

Kakashi snorted, clearly trying—and failing—to stifle his laughter. The boy’s shoulders shook with barely contained amusement, his earlier seriousness all but gone now that Jaskier was in the picture. The change was striking—he seemed at ease, even playful as he watched the chaos unfold.

“Tell this man I didn’t sleep with his wife! She’s not even my type! I was merely… serenading her. Innocent, I swear!” Jaskier gasped, still out of breath. You’ve got to be kidding me…

Geralt raised an eyebrow, his patience already thin. “Jaskier.”

“Alright, maybe not entirely innocent,” the bard amended, casting a quick glance over Geralt’s shoulder at the nobleman, who was catching up, chest heaving. “But really, does this look like the face of a man who deserves to be skewered?”

Kakashi snorted, crossing his arms. “I’d say.” His eye gleamed with amusement. 

Jaskier blinked, noticing Kakashi for the first time. “And who’s this little—”

Kakashi cut him off with a wink—although it looked more like a blink with the boy only having a single eye. “Don’t worry about me, Fluffy. I’m just enjoying the show.”

“Fluffy—what?” Jaskier sputtered, hand reflexively touching the feathered hat perched precariously on his head. “You wound me!”

Before Jaskier could launch into one of his dramatic tirades, Geralt sighed heavily. “Jaskier, I don’t have time for this.”

The nobleman closed in, still shouting threats as he pushed his way through the crowd. "You! You slept with my wife, you filthy bard!"

Kakashi, still grinning, leaned over, pushing onto his tiptoes and whispered just loud enough for Geralt to hear, “I’d help him if I were you. Looks like your friend’s really in deep this time.”

“Great,” Geralt muttered, casting Kakashi a side glance. The kid’s mood had shifted entirely during the event, and that alone made him more inclined to deal with the mess. But Geralt wasn’t blind to the fact that Kakashi seemed to understand a little too much of Jaskier’s predicament.

Geralt shot Jaskier a withering look. "A misunderstanding, huh?"

Jaskier opened his mouth to respond, but before he could explain himself further, the nobleman lunged forward, swinging wildly at Jaskier’s head. Geralt reacted quickly, stepping further between them and catching the man’s wrist mid-swing. The nobleman struggled, his face red with fury, but Geralt’s grip was unyielding.

"Enough," Geralt growled, his voice low and dangerous. "He’s not worth it."

The nobleman glared at Geralt, his rage momentarily faltering as he took in the Witcher’s imposing presence. He hesitated, but only for a moment. "That bastard seduced my wife!"

"And I’m sure she’ll recover," Geralt replied dryly, releasing the man’s wrist with a shove that sent him stumbling back. "Go home. Before you make a bigger fool of yourself."

The nobleman sputtered with indignation and opened his mouth to protest, but a single look from Geralt made him think twice. The man mumbled something under his breath. With one last glare at Jaskier, he turned and stormed off, muttering curses as loudly as he could without shouting.

Jaskier let out a long, relieved sigh, leaning against the side of the inn. "You always know how to handle these things, Geralt. I knew I could count on you."

Kakashi only rolled his eye. “Right. Because nothing says ‘problem solved’ like running for your life through the middle of a marketplace.”

Geralt shot the boy a warning glance, but it was clear Kakashi wasn’t going to stop. At least he didn’t look to be planning another escape. He was too busy teasing Jaskier with thinly veiled amusement, no doubt cataloging every detail for future reference.

Geralt shot him a cold look. "Next time, handle it yourself."

To Geralt’s growing concern, Kakashi chimed in with a sly smile, “So… was it worth it?”

The bard blinked, caught off guard by the boy’s question, then grinned. “Oh, absolutely,” he replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Worth every bit of the chase.”

Kakashi chuckled. “Thought so.” 

Geralt shot Kakashi a sharp look of disbelief, but Kakashi only grinned, his posture loose and at ease as they continued deeper into the town.

Jaskier’s grin faltered, and he straightened up, glancing nervously between Geralt and Kakashi, who had been watching the entire exchange with a bemused expression. "Ah, and who’s this little lad?" Jaskier asked, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. "New companion? Looks a little strange for a stray! I thought you said Witchers couldn’t have children my dear Geralt!" Jaskier spoke with a small flourish as he gestured at Kakashi while aiming and emploring glance at Geralt.

Geralt glanced at Kakashi, who watched the interaction with a heavy veil of amusement, although it flickered slightly at the insinuation that Geralt could, in any way shape or form, possibly be his father.

"Long story," Geralt muttered, stepping past Jaskier and heading toward the inn. "Let’s get inside. I need a drink."

Kakashi followed silently, his eye flicking toward Jaskier with blatant curiosity. The bard, ever the performer, gave him a flourishing bow as they passed. "A pleasure to meet you, young sir! I’m Jaskier, the humble bard at your service."

Kakashi laughed, an amused “Kakashi” slipping from his lips, his gaze turning forward as they entered the inn. Jaskier trailed after them, still chattering away about his surprise at seeing his friend with a new companion, but Geralt had already tuned him out. He was too tired to deal with Jaskier’s antics, and he still couldn’t quite trust Kakashi not to make another run for it the first chance he got, even with the kid’s enjoyment of the bard’s stories.

As they entered the dimly lit inn, Geralt headed straight for the bar, dropping a few coins on the counter for a round of drinks. The bartender, a burly man with a thick beard, nodded and poured them each a mug of ale, except for Kakashi who received a mug of milk. The boy looked slightly put out by that and Geralt wondered what the boy thought he’d be given.

Geralt took a long drink, his mind still racing with thoughts of the road ahead. Kaer Morhen wasn’t far now, but he couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not with Kakashi still planning who-knows-what, and Jaskier showing up and stirring up trouble at every turn.

With a weary sigh, Geralt glanced over at Kakashi, who had settled into a chair by the fire, his posture relaxed but his eye still watchful, taking in his surroundings, not with the same calculating gaze he’d had since their journey began, but rather as though enjoying himself for the first time since he’d found the kid.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Kakashi yet. He acted like a soldier and Witcher, and now Geralt was getting to see the part of the boy that was still a kid. For all that the boy had been a confusing find and proof of experimentation, this experience was helping to show the human behind Kakashi’s training. Geralt was glad to see it. With all that had happened though, one thing was still certain: the journey to Kaer Morhen wasn’t going to be easy, but it would certainly be interesting.

Jaskier, oblivious to the previous tension between them, launched into another story, his voice filling the inn with tales of adventure and romance. Geralt took another swig of ale, his gaze shifting between the bard and the boy.

One problem at a time.

The inn’s common room buzzed with the low hum of voices, the crackle of the fire adding a warmth that seemed to soothe the edges of the long day. Kakashi had settled into a seat by the fire, his single eye reflecting the flickering flames, his earlier amusement lingering just beneath the surface. Geralt sat at the bar, halfway through his second mug of ale, the fatigue of the journey still weighing on his bones.

Jaskier, of course, was perched on a stool nearby, regaling the room with his latest exaggerated tales—no doubt adding extra embellishments to make up for Kakashi's quiet but noticeable chuckles earlier. It was all harmless enough for now, but Geralt could sense the shift coming. He knew Jaskier well enough to recognize when the bard was working toward something.

As the last tale of a supposed daring escape came to an end, Jaskier finished his drink with a swig, his gaze drifting toward Geralt with a playful twinkle in his eye. That look was never a good sign.

“So,” Jaskier began, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice lowering just enough to signal that he was done with his public performance. “Geralt, my dear friend... care to tell me how exactly you came to be traveling with this fine young lad?”

Geralt shot him a sidelong glance, already weary of where this conversation was headed. "Not much to tell," he replied gruffly, taking another swig of his ale.

"Not much to tell?" Jaskier echoed, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Come now, Geralt. You don't just turn up in town with a child, of all things, and expect me to believe there's nothing to the story." He cast a glance over his shoulder toward Kakashi, who appeared to be doing his best to ignore the conversation but was clearly listening. "I mean, Witchers... don't exactly make children. Not in the traditional sense, at least."

Geralt's jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "He's not mine, Jaskier."

Jaskier chuckled, his grin widening as if he were sharing in some private joke. "Oh, I know that, of course. It’s just..." He trailed off, tilting his head in that infuriatingly curious way of his. “I can’t help but wonder. I mean, I know you Witchers can’t have children, but… are we certain you didn’t just take him? You’re not above rescuing strays, after all.”

Geralt shot him a withering look. “Careful, Jaskier.”

But Jaskier, ever persistent, leaned closer. "Geralt," he said in a softer tone, “I just want to make sure the lad’s... you know, not here against his will.” His eyes twinkled with barely disguised mischief, but there was genuine concern beneath his teasing.

Geralt sighed heavily, setting his mug down with a thud. "If I kidnapped him, do you think he’d still be sitting there by the fire instead of trying to run again?"

Jaskier blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of Geralt’s reply. “Again?” His voice pitched upward, the teasing edge faltering slightly. “So there was an escape attempt!”

Geralt gave him a deadpan stare, feeling the growing desire to throttle the bard. "What do you think?"

Jaskier let out a low whistle, turning back to look at Kakashi again, his eyes widening with renewed interest. "A little runaway, huh? Well, that does make things more interesting.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, as if solving some great mystery. “Still, it begs the question—why exactly do you have him? You’re not exactly a... fatherly type, Geralt.”

Geralt’s fingers tightened around his mug as he fought to hold back his irritation. “He’s one of us, Jaskier.”

Jaskier froze for a moment, brows knitting in confusion. “What?” 

Jaskier blinked, then laughed, though it was tinged with disbelief. "Geralt, you're pulling my leg. Witchers can’t have kids. And they definitely don’t make them anymore. That was stopped decades ago."

"Yeah. That’s what I thought too," Geralt muttered, taking another long drink, his eyes fixed on the fire. “But here he is. Recently made, by the looks of him.” Geralt’s shoulders tensed, and his face hardened. He looked directly at Jaskier, his voice lower, gruffer. "He's a Witcher."

The shift in the air was palpable. Jaskier froze mid-gesture, his hand falling away from his chin as he processed the words. The flicker of the fire no longer matched the sudden gravity between them. Jaskier’s dramatic demeanor dropped instantly, replaced by a look of sober confusion. His eyes widened, and his brow furrowed in disbelief.

“A Witcher?” Jaskier’s voice was barely a whisper now, the usual theatrics replaced with a serious edge. His gaze darted back to Kakashi, then back to Geralt, searching his friend’s face for any hint of a joke. “Geralt, are you sure?”

Geralt glanced over at Kakashi, watching the kid’s small form by the fire. The white hair, the strange fangs—not quite human, not quite monster. “I’m certain,” he said.

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair, looking at Kakashi with newfound concern. Jaskier’s lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed the news, the levity of the evening fading completely. His fingers fidgeted again, this time more anxiously, his mind racing. "But Geralt, I thought... I thought they couldn’t make any more Witchers, not since—"

"I did too," Geralt cut in, his voice grim. “Until I found him.”

The silence that followed was thick, laden with unspoken fears and uncertainties. Jaskier swallowed hard, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Jaskier exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “This is... I don’t even know what to say. I mean, Geralt, if someone’s figured out how to make Witchers again...”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice even more. “What are we going to do?”

Geralt shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the fire. “Which is why I’m taking him to Kaer Morhen.” He drank the last of his ale, face set in firm resolution. “Gotta let Vesemir know.”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to Geralt’s face, alarm and determination flashing in them. “Geralt, you can’t seriously be thinking of going alone.”

Geralt’s gaze shifted to Jaskier, his expression flat. “I can handle it. He’s my responsibility.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Jaskier shot back, his hands splaying out as if the very idea of being left behind was absurd. “Geralt, I’ve come this far with you. I’m not about to let you run off with a mystery Witcher child to face... gods know what without me.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “This isn’t your business.”

For all that Geralt appreciated Jaskier being around, neither of them had any clue of what Kakashi’s appearance meant, let alone how dangerous things were going to get. Geralt wasn’t even sure whether or not the boy was being pursued by his so-called creators. It wouldn’t make sense to leave a trained weapon like Kakashi out in the world without a leash or a hunting squad to get the boy back. As much as he was glad to see the humanity Jaskier brought out of the boy, it wasn’t Jaskier’s job to intervene any farther. Geralt needed to get Kakashi back to Vesemir and the journey was already going to be long and arduous.

Jaskier straightened up on his stool, crossing his arms with a defiant tilt of his chin. “I’m making it my business. You’re my friend, Geralt. You can’t just... run off without me. Not with this kind of trouble brewing.”

For all of Jaskier’s usual bluster, Geralt knew the bard wasn’t joking. His eyes lacked the usual gleam that came with laughing matters and the square of his shoulders was unfaltering. Jaskier was coming whether Geralt wanted him to or not. Damned bard.

Geralt let out a slow breath, his eyes flicking toward Kakashi, then back to Jaskier. He knew better than to argue when the bard was like this, stubborn and determined. With a grunt, he leaned back slightly, resigned.

“Fine. But you keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way.”

Jaskier’s lips curled into a large, satisfied smile, though his eyes remained serious. "You have my word," he said, quieter now, his gaze lingering on Kakashi as he plopped back down into his seat, the weight of what lay ahead settling heavily on his shoulders.

The bard’s silence lasted all of a few seconds. “So you think they can help?”

“They’ll need to know,” Geralt said simply. “If someone’s making Witchers again, even badly, we need to figure out how. And Kakashi... he needs guidance. More than I can give him.”

Jaskier nodded slowly, his expression growing more serious. “And if the others can’t fix whatever’s wrong with him?” The seriousness of his tone was ruined with a frilly gesture, an attempt to lighten the conversation.“You know, outside of being a witcher.”

Geralt didn’t answer right away. He didn’t want to think about that. “We’ll figure something out,” he said finally, the words heavy with unspoken doubts.

Jaskier watched him for a moment, then sighed, leaning back against the bar. “Well, I suppose there’s never a dull moment with you, is there?”

Geralt grunted, raising his mug to his lips. “Didn’t ask for it.”

“No,” Jaskier murmured, his gaze drifting back to Kakashi. “I suppose none of us ever do.”

Jaskier’s musings were cut short as a serving girl brought over a tray laden with food, setting it down at an empty table near the fire. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the room, and it caught Kakashi’s attention as he shifted in his seat by the hearth.

Geralt noticed the boy’s subtle questioning glance and pushed himself up from his stool. “Come on, kid. You need to eat.”

Kakashi didn’t move right away, his expression thoughtful as his eye lingered on the flames. He seemed distant, as if caught in the swirl of something far away. But after a brief moment, he blinked and nodded, standing up slowly. His movements were still a little stiff, likely remnants of his earlier exhaustion, though he did his best to hide it. 

Geralt made his way to the table first, pulling out a chair for Kakashi with a quiet grunt. The boy hesitated just for a beat, then sat down, careful and unhurried, still unsure of his surroundings but trusting Geralt’s word. 

Jaskier followed suit, sliding into a seat across from them with a flourish, though his earlier dramatic energy had tempered somewhat. He watched Kakashi curiously, his head resting in one hand as he tapped a finger absently on the table.

“Well then,” Jaskier began, his voice lighter but not quite carefree. “Let’s see what we have here.” He reached for the bread, tearing off a piece and gesturing toward Kakashi. “Eat up. No need to be shy.”

Kakashi didn’t respond right away, his gaze flicking between Jaskier and the food as if he wasn’t quite sure how to engage. After a moment, he slowly reached for a piece of bread, his movements measured, almost cautious. The hunger was there, but so was restraint, the wariness of eating food he hadn’t seen prepared. 

Geralt watched the exchange in silence, his keen eyes catching the small details—the way Kakashi’s hands moved with a certain precision, the way he glanced around as though watching for threats. It wasn’t just the Witcher mutations that made the kid different; his training showed though without age to temper it. 

Jaskier, ever perceptive in his own way, noticed the tension too. He cleared his throat and leaned back slightly, trying to ease the weight of the atmosphere. “So, Kakashi, where do you come from? I’d ask if you’ve ever heard one of my songs, but judging by your general air of mystery, I’m guessing not.”

Kakashi’s eye shifted to Jaskier, his expression aloof, as he chewed slowly. He swallowed before answering, his voice quiet but steady. “No… Can’t say that I have.”

Jaskier’s smile faltered for just a second before he regained his composure, shrugging it off with a chuckle. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that before long. Though Geralt here might try to spare you the torment.” He shot the Witcher a teasing glance.

Geralt grunted, reaching for a piece of meat. “He’s had enough torment.”

Jaskier’s smile softened at that, and he dropped the performing edge of his playful act, leaning forward just a bit. “We’ll just have to settle for a few stories then!”

Kakashi’s eye flicked back to Jaskier, studying him for a moment before giving a small nod. He didn’t seem convinced, but he wasn’t pushing back either. It was a start.

The silence stretched for a few beats, the crackling of the fire and the soft murmur of the inn’s patrons filling the space. Kakashi’s movements remained cautious, methodical, as if the act of eating was more of a calculated task than a moment to relax. The little sniffs Geralt caught the boy subjecting each bite too only furthered his speculation. Definitely suspicious of food.

After a few minutes, Jaskier broke the silence again, his voice lighter once more. “But before that, Kakashi... do you know how to play any instruments? A bit of lute perhaps? I can always use a good partner in song.”

Kakashi blinked at him, clearly not expecting the question. There was a slight quirk of his lips, a brief flicker of amusement. “No.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically. “Alas, another missed opportunity. Though with your talents, I’m sure you’d be a quick study.”

Geralt shot Jaskier a look, a silent warning. The bard shrugged, offering a small, disarming smile in return.

As the meal continued, Geralt let the conversation ebb and flow, his attention shifting between Kakashi’s quiet demeanor and the uncertain future that awaited them all at Kaer Morhen. Whatever happened to him, he thought, Vesemir would have some answers. But for now, Geralt let the quiet of the evening settle, the warmth of the fire offering a brief, if fleeting, sense of peace.

As the evening stretched on, the three of them sat around the wooden table in the corner of the inn. The room was alive with the clatter of mugs, quiet conversation, and the crackle of the hearth, but their corner felt removed from the rest of the bustle. Geralt had ordered food for the table earlier, and while Kakashi hadn’t shown much interest initially beyond small nibbling bites, he eventually began to pick at the stew before him. Geralt watched him out of the corner of his eye, noticing the subtle shift in the kid’s posture.

At first, Kakashi had seemed as guarded as ever—sitting with his shoulders slightly hunched, one eye flicking from Geralt to Jaskier to the door as if he might bolt at any moment. But as Jaskier launched into one of his usual stories—this time something absurd about a group of farmers chasing down a manticore—something in the boy’s demeanor changed.

Kakashi’s gaze softened, and though he remained quiet, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, a small but noticeable sign of amusement. He was still tense, but the sharp edge of his wariness had dulled. It was a subtle change, but Geralt had spent enough time around dangerous and distrustful people to recognize the signs. The kid was starting to relax—if only a little.

Jaskier, of course, seemed oblivious to the shift, continuing his tale with grand gestures, clearly enjoying himself. The bard had a way of filling the space with his energy, drawing attention like a flame in the dark. He leaned in dramatically, his voice dropping low, before throwing his arms wide as he reached the climax of his story, earning a snort from Kakashi.

Geralt glanced over at the kid, catching the faint sound. A snort. Not quite a laugh, but close. Definitely a shift.

Geralt's brow furrowed slightly. Kakashi hadn’t made a sound like that since they’d met, besides the brief suppressed laugh earlier at Jaskier’s debauchery, keeping his emotions tightly locked down. The boy had been all stone and silence—guarded. Now, though, there was something else. A flicker of something more alive. It wasn’t just the noise, either. The way Kakashi’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, the way he leaned forward a little more, even the way his eye stayed on Jaskier rather than darting around the room—it was all new.

Geralt took a long drink from his mug, watching the scene unfold.

“—and then, of course, I had to improvise!” Jaskier was saying, his voice climbing in mock desperation as he mimicked swinging a lute like a sword. “The thing about manticores, you see, is they don’t take too kindly to a man playing music at them.” He grinned, clearly expecting a response.

Kakashi looked down at his bowl, shaking his head slightly, but the movement was different now—more relaxed, less guarded. “I’ve fought worse with less,” he muttered, almost too quiet to be heard.

Geralt’s ears caught the words, and he turned slightly in his chair to get a better look at Kakashi. The kid wasn’t exactly chatting, but there was a quiet openness to the statement. He was engaging, in his own way, even if it was just a half-muttered comment.

Jaskier, sharp as always when it came to any hint of banter, perked up immediately. “Oh? Worse than a manticore, you say? Now that’s a story I’d like to hear!” His eyes sparkled with curiosity, but the usual teasing edge was softened, as though sensing he shouldn’t push too hard.

Kakashi didn’t respond immediately, but Geralt noticed the way his lips twitched again, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the edges. He was holding back—just holding back—from saying something more. Geralt leaned back in his chair, observing the boy quietly. The kid had been running on something akin to survival mode, shutting down every part of himself to stay focused and alert. But now, here, with Jaskier’s relentless energy swirling around him, that mask was starting to crack.

Interesting.

Geralt kept his expression neutral, taking another drink from his mug, but he filed the observation away. Jaskier, in his own unpredictable way, was getting through to Kakashi in a way Geralt hadn’t managed. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The kid was starting to open up, even if just a little, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel a twinge of relief. Kakashi might not trust them fully yet, but maybe he didn’t have to. Not right now.

“Maybe another time,” Kakashi finally said, his voice low but not as tight as before. “It’s... complicated.”

“Ah, but the best stories always are!” Jaskier replied, clearly trying to coax more out of the boy, though he did so with a lighter touch this time. He picked up his own mug and leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Besides, we’ve got all night. Plenty of time for a few more tales.”

Kakashi glanced over at Geralt, as if seeking permission to continue or perhaps gauging whether it was safe to let his guard down further. Geralt gave him a slight nod, wordless but clear. It’s fine. No rush.

The boy shifted in his seat again, more at ease now, and even though he didn’t say anything more, there was a sense that he was settling in. The quiet tension that had hung over him since they’d met was still there, but it had softened, just enough to give Geralt hope that maybe—just maybe—they were making progress.

As the meal wound down and the inn began to quiet, Jaskier stood, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied sigh. “Well, that was delightful,” he declared, flashing a grin at both Geralt and Kakashi. “But I do believe it’s time to get some rest. After all, a bard needs his beauty sleep.”

Geralt snorted, pushing back his chair. “If you think that’ll help,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to his words.

Kakashi, who had been quietly sipping the last of his drink, stood up as well, his movements still careful but noticeably less stiff. The evening with Jaskier had taken the edge off his guardedness, though Geralt could tell the boy was still alert.

Jaskier clapped his hands together, his smile widening as if struck by a sudden idea. “Right, let’s get you to bed, Kakashi!” he declared, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Kakashi blinked, caught off guard. “I can—"

But before he could finish the sentence, Jaskier was already herding him toward the bedroomsl with the same theatrical flair he used for everything else. “Nonsense, you’re still recovering from a long trip. You need rest. The best way to ensure a speedy recovery is through comfort, and that includes being tucked in by a master bard.”

Kakashi’s eye widened slightly in bewilderment, and he opened his mouth to protest again, but Jaskier was relentless, already fluffing the pillows and arranging the blankets as if preparing a royal bedchamber. The kid's lips twitched, betraying the laugh he was trying to suppress.

“Really, I can—” Kakashi tried again, but Jaskier was too quick, grinning as he guided the boy toward the bed with a playful nudge.

“Ah, hush now. No need to play the tough warrior all the time. Everyone needs a good tuck-in every once in a while,” Jaskier teased, his voice lilting with amusement.

Kakashi finally let out a snort, the sound soft but unmistakable. “This isn’t necessary.”

“But it’s tradition!” Jaskier exclaimed dramatically, giving Kakashi a wink before pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Besides, look how cozy you are. Don’t you feel better already?”

Kakashi, despite his earlier protests, was clearly holding back more laughter. The kid’s mouth twitched again, this time more openly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening but was too amused to stop it. “Sure,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Much better.”

Geralt, watching from across the room with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow at the entire exchange. “You’re going to spoil him,” he remarked dryly.

Jaskier turned to Geralt with a flourish. “Oh, Geralt, there’s nothing wrong with a little pampering now and then. Even Witchers need to feel loved.” He gave Kakashi a final pat on the shoulder before stepping back with a satisfied nod. “There. All settled.”

Kakashi, though still wary, seemed more relaxed than he had since Geralt found him. He lay back against the pillows, the faintest smile lingering on his face. It was a small but welcome sign that he was beginning to trust them—if only a little.

Jaskier, clearly pleased with himself, turned to Geralt with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now, as for sleeping arrangements…” He gestured toward the single bed on the other side of the room. “I’ll be sharing your bed, dear Witcher. Why waste extra coin when this is a perfectly fine option?”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You will not.”

“Oh, come now,” Jaskier replied, unruffled by the glare. “Think of it as a cost-saving measure. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before.”

“That was different,” Geralt grumbled, though he didn’t move to stop Jaskier from flopping down onto the bed with a contented sigh.

“Different how?” Jaskier quipped, kicking off his boots and stretching out. “Same bed, same Witcher, same me. The only difference now is Kakashi, and he’s already tucked in quite snugly.”

Kakashi’s quiet laughter drifted from his bed, though he quickly turned his face away, hiding the smile. Geralt shot him a look, but the kid seemed more at ease than he’d been since they’d met, so Geralt let out a resigned sigh. Fine.

“Just don’t steal the blanket,” Geralt muttered, pulling off his armor and settling onto the edge of the bed, leaving enough space between him and Jaskier to make his feelings clear.

Jaskier grinned triumphantly. “No promises, dear Witcher.”

As the room settled into a peaceful quiet, the crackling of the hearth providing a soft background, Geralt glanced over at Kakashi. The kid was already drifting off, his breathing slow and steady. Jaskier, beside him, had already begun humming some quiet tune, his voice low and soothing.

Geralt closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of the fire and the soft sounds of the inn to lull him into a rare moment of calm. Maybe, just maybe, tonight they could all rest easy. Even if Jaskier did end up stealing the blanket.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a pale light over the village streets, Geralt found himself leading their small band northward once more. Their next destination was still a few days’ ride away, the path winding through smaller towns, forests, and the occasional stretch of open road. At least now, Geralt thought, they were making some progress. With Kakashi walking beside him, and Jaskier trailing behind on foot, complaining about the state of his boots, the journey was off to a predictable start.

That was, until he heard Kakashi mutter something under his breath—a tone that didn’t quite match the boy’s usual guarded manner. Geralt glanced over, narrowing his eyes slightly as he caught sight of what Kakashi was holding.

A book. One of Jaskier’s books.

It wasn’t just any old tome, either. Geralt knew Jaskier’s collection well enough to recognize the worn, beaten cover of one of the bard’s more... adventurous tales. Something about a noblewoman and a rather enthusiastic stable boy, if he remembered correctly.

For a moment, Geralt said nothing, letting Kakashi quietly flip through the pages as they walked. The kid’s pace remained steady, eyes darting over the words with a focus that seemed almost out of place given the material. Geralt’s brow furrowed. The hell is the kid up to now?

Behind them, Jaskier’s idle grumbling trailed off as he noticed the book in Kakashi’s hands. Geralt didn’t have to look to know what was coming next.

“Wait a moment…” Jaskier’s voice rose in pitch, the slow realization dawning on him. “Oi, is that mine?” He quickened his pace, closing the distance between them. “Kakashi, my dear boy, that’s a very delicate piece of literature you’re holding. Maybe best left for... more private moments, yes?”

Kakashi, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the pages as he walked, completely ignoring Jaskier’s protests with the kind of deadpan expression that only seemed to amuse himself. Geralt caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of the kid’s mouth.

Jaskier wasn’t giving up that easily. “No, no, no. This is a misunderstanding. That’s not for your eyes!”

Without missing a beat, Kakashi deftly sidestepped Jaskier’s outstretched hand, his reflexes sharper than any twelve-year-old should have. Jaskier lunged again, and again Kakashi dodged, effortlessly shifting his weight to keep the book just out of the bard’s reach.

Geralt let out a low grunt, watching the spectacle unfold with a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. Jaskier, of course, was flailing like a bird trying to catch the wind, his increasingly dramatic attempts to reclaim the book only resulting in more near-misses. Meanwhile, Kakashi—still reading, mind you—looked like he was barely putting in any effort at all.

“Kakashi,” Geralt rumbled, his voice low with warning. “We’re in the middle of the village.”

The boy glanced up briefly, the faintest spark of mischief flickering in his eye before he returned to the book. “It’s a good story,” he replied casually, still flipping through the pages as if reading a grocery list and not a scandalous tale. “I can see why Jaskier likes it so much.”

Jaskier sputtered, face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “Geralt, help me! He’s ruining the pacing! He’s—oh gods, that’s not a part I want him to read!”

Geralt sighed heavily. “You’re the one who left your bag open.”

Jaskier gasped, affronted. “I did not expect him to go rifling through my things like some-- Like some bandit!”

Kakashi gave a little snort, never looking up from the pages. “I thought bards liked sharing stories.”

Geralt suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The kid was playing a dangerous game, but he had to admit, the way Kakashi was getting under Jaskier’s skin was... new. There was a lightness to it, a kind of calculated mischief aimed specifically at the bard, and it was something Geralt hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t the sharp, defensive edge Kakashi had when dealing with Geralt. This was... different. Playful, even.

“Give it back!” Jaskier made one last desperate lunge, but Kakashi easily sidestepped him again, finally closing the book with a quiet thunk and slipping it into his pack, well out of the bard’s reach.

“Maybe later,” Kakashi said with a straight face, though the subtle hint of amusement in his tone was undeniable.

Jaskier groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I can’t believe this. First Geralt, now the child! What has the world come to? I’m surrounded by brutes!”

Geralt shot the bard a look. “You brought this on yourself.”

Jaskier huffed, falling back in step with Geralt, though his indignant muttering didn’t stop. Kakashi, for his part, continued to walk ahead, the faintest spring in his step as if he hadn’t just stolen one of Jaskier’s prized novels and read it in the middle of the street.

Geralt couldn’t help but shake his head. He hadn’t seen Kakashi this relaxed—or this sly—since they’d met. Whatever was going on in the kid’s head, it seemed like Jaskier had unwittingly unlocked a side of him that had been buried beneath all the tension and wariness.

“Don’t worry, Jaskier,” Geralt muttered dryly, laying a heavy pat on the bard’s shoulder. “You’ll survive.”

Jaskier let out a mournful sigh, rubbing his temples. “Barely. The poor boy will have his mind corrupted at this rate…”

“Pretty sure he’s already corrupted.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Geralt! You wound me. And here I thought you’d help guide the youth to a proper upbringing.”

Geralt snorted. “Not my job.”

As they continued northward, Jaskier’s complaints eventually faded into the background, but Geralt’s thoughts remained on Kakashi. The kid had found an outlet for all the tension and guardedness that had weighed him down. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

And as much as Geralt would never admit it aloud, seeing Kakashi actually having a bit of fun, even if it came at Jaskier’s expense, was… good. Different.But good.

Though, judging by the way Kakashi was eyeing Jaskier’s pack again, Geralt had a feeling this was only the beginning of the chaos to come.

As the three of them made their way north, the road was filled with the usual sounds of travel—the crunch of boots on dirt and the occasional chatter of Jaskier, who was still pouting about the loss of his novel. Geralt kept his eyes on the road, glancing back ever so often at the pair trailing just behind him. Jaskier would inch closer to Kakashi, then make a grab for the book tucked neatly into the kid’s pouch. Kakashi, as quick as ever, sidestepped effortlessly each time, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier had been pouting ever since Kakashi swiped one of his steamy novels, dodging with such precision that any attempt from Jaskier to reclaim it had been, thus far, laughably unsuccessful. And not for lack of trying.

It didn’t help that after the dozenth attempt, Kakashi once more pulled the book from his pouch and was once more reading it while walking. As much as Geralt was glad to see the kid acting more human, Jaskier’s whining was starting to edge from funny into the realm of annoying.

The bard, now several feet behind Geralt, was making another valiant effort. He leaned in as if aiming for casual conversation, but his eyes were fixed on the book in Kakashi’s hand, fingers twitching as he feigned a stretch.

Kakashi dodged by slowing his next step by just a hair, barely even looking up from the book he was now reading while walking. The kid’s reflexes were sharp—too sharp for Jaskier, who groaned dramatically when his hands found nothing but air.

The bard wasn’t taking his defeat well. "Give it back, you little—” Jaskier muttered, reaching again and missing by a wide margin as Kakashi stepped to the side, his hand snapping out of reach just before Jaskier could touch the book.

“Nice try,” Kakashi said, the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice. There was a lightness to him now that had been absent before this. He still kept a careful eye on his surroundings, but it was as if Jaskier’s presence had finally pulled him from that guarded shell he’d built up around himself.

Jaskier groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up in defeat for the umpteenth time. “I’ll have you know, that’s one of my best works! The prose, the passion—it's truly a masterpiece of erotic literature! You can’t possibly appreciate it!”

Kakashi’s eye gleamed with playful mischief as he flipped through a few pages without stopping. “Mmm... prose, sure. I’ll let you know when I reach the passion part.”

“I don’t know why you insist on tormenting me,” Jaskier whined, throwing his arms up as he stumbled a few steps ahead, now walking backward to face Kakashi. “That book is mine, you know. You could at least let me have it back before you crumple the pages.”

Geralt had to suppress a smirk at the exchange. The kid had been all business before Jaskier had joined them, silent and brooding, but now... he was letting more of himself slip through. And much to Jaskier’s frustration, most of that playful side seemed aimed squarely at him.

Kakashi’s eye flicked up briefly, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m being careful,” he said simply, his voice calm and collected, though the amusement was clear in the slight arch of his brow.

Geralt, keeping his focus on the path ahead, couldn’t help the faint huff of air that escaped his nostrils. The kid’s definitely loosening up. He hadn’t expected Kakashi to warm up to anyone this quickly, but it seemed Jaskier’s mix of relentless chatter and absurd antics was working its magic. Kakashi had gone from silent and guarded to playful—at least with Jaskier. Perhaps the bard, in all his exasperation, didn’t seem like an authority figure to the kid. If anything, he seemed like an endless source of entertainment.

“Careful, he says,” Jaskier muttered, throwing his hands into the air. “Careful—yet he was reading my book in the middle of the village street earlier as if he were reading some—some holy scripture! Do you know how many judgmental looks I got because of you?”

Kakashi turned a page, his gaze never leaving the book. “Wasn’t that many,” he said in the same nonchalant tone. Geralt could practically hear the grin in Kakashi’s voice, though he didn’t glance back. Instead, he kept walking, letting the exchange play out as he always did with Jaskier’s antics. 

They continued down the road, the village they had just passed fading into the distance, while Jaskier grumbled under his breath, trying to come up with a new strategy to reclaim his prized possession. He would give Kakashi these sharp, calculating glances, clearly trying to plan his next move, but the kid was always one step ahead.

Every time Geralt glanced back, Kakashi was still there, eye glued to the book, looking perfectly at ease with his nose buried in it, completely unbothered by the bard's attempts. The fact that Kakashi could read while walking without tripping up or missing a step on the uneven path was impressive on its own— something the boy likely owed to his witcher mutations and training. It reminded him of how he and the others used to play when they were kids themselves.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier, clearly defeated, sighed dramatically and turned his focus back to storytelling.

“You know,” he began, with that casual air that usually prefaced one of his endless tales, “this reminds me of the time Geralt and I found ourselves in the middle of this awful village, where the mayor’s daughter had been promised to a ghastly old warlock. And naturally, the warlock was intent on collecting. You'd think such situations would come with a bit more... delicacy, but no—Geralt here decides to burst into the warlock’s tower mid-ritual, sword out, ready to hack away, while I—well, I had a different approach in mind, a bit of charm and negotiation, you know?”

Geralt rolled his eyes as he continued walking, knowing where this was going. Kakashi glanced up briefly from the book, giving Jaskier just enough of his attention to let him think he was listening intently.

“I was this close,” Jaskier continued, holding up his thumb and forefinger, “to convincing the warlock to call the whole thing off. We had drinks—well, I had drinks—and the man was quite taken with my music. Thought I might join his court as his personal bard. Things were going splendidly until Geralt here, in his infinite wisdom, decides to throw one of his bombs into the ritual circle.”

Geralt felt a smirk tugging at his lips but remained silent, keeping his gaze on the road.

“So there I am, playing the lute, charming the warlock, when suddenly—BOOM! The entire place goes up in flames, the warlock is screaming bloody murder, and I’m diving for cover behind a table that’s about to catch fire.”

Kakashi raised an eyebrow. “You managed to get out of there?”

“Oh, of course, of course!” Jaskier replied dramatically. “But not without losing my best lute—burned to a crisp, it was. I was devastated. Meanwhile, Geralt here strolled out like it was just another day at the office, carrying the mayor’s daughter over his shoulder. No regard for my artistry, my suffering. You’d think he was the one doing all the work!”

“You were hiding under a table,” Geralt said dryly, finally chiming in.

“Details, details,” Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “The point is, I was the one making progress—diplomatic progress. But no, brute force always wins the day with you, doesn’t it?”

Kakashi snickered, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. “Sounds like you’re lucky to still have your head.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Jaskier replied, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “And that’s only one of the many times this witcher has dragged me into near-death situations. But it’s all in a day’s work, I suppose.”

Geralt huffed quietly, his lips twitching into a faint grin as the bard’s theatrical complaints carried on. Despite himself, Kakashi seemed to be enjoying it too—enough to respond to Jaskier’s next inquiry.

Jaskier rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Speaking of surviving... Tell me, Kakashi, what about you? Surely you’ve had your fair share of daring adventures, no?”

Kakashi paused, lowering the book a fraction as if considering how much to say. For a moment, it seemed like he might deflect the question, but then he spoke, voice more thoughtful than usual. “I guess you could say that.”

Jaskier, sensing an opening, grinned and leaned in slightly. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. I’d love to hear about one of them—perhaps something that might rival the time Geralt and I nearly outran a pack of ghouls on horseback.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, letting the conversation unfold. He wasn’t surprised Jaskier had managed to get Kakashi talking—once the kid started engaging with Jaskier, it was only a matter of time before the bard’s persistence would coax out a story or two.

Kakashi, flipping the book closed for the first time since the conversation started, hummed softly, his eye clouded with thought. “There was this one time... I had to chase down a noblewoman’s pet cat.”

“A pet cat?” Jaskier asked, eyes wide with curiosity. “That doesn’t sound so dangerous.”

Kakashi’s lips twitched again. “It wasn’t just any cat. It was a demon cat.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise. “A demon cat?”

Kakashi nodded solemnly, his expression serious despite the clear amusement in his voice. “It scratched anyone who got too close. And I mean really scratched them. Sent half the household to the healer.”

Jaskier leaned in, eyes wide with fascination. “And you caught it?”

“Eventually. It took a few hours.” Kakashi’s tone was deadpan, though the faintest smile played on his lips. “Had to climb three trees, crawl through a hedge, and practically destroy the lady’s garden in the process.”

Geralt glanced back just in time to see the way Kakashi’s eye flickered with something like fondness as he continued. “But yeah, I caught it. She was happy, and I got paid.”

Jaskier stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly open. “And that was it? You didn’t... have to kill the demon cat or anything?”

Kakashi shook his head, finally pocketing the novel. “Nah, just had to return it to its owner. Got scratched for my troubles, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

Jaskier seemed slightly deflated at the lack of bloodshed but perked up again when Kakashi added, “Though, there was this one time I got stabbed. That was more... interesting.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t expected Kakashi to share that kind of story.

Jaskier, oblivious to the shift, brightened. “Stabbed? Oh, now this sounds like an adventure.”

Kakashi chuckled lightly, the sound surprisingly genuine. “It wasn’t much of an adventure, really. It was more like payback.”

“Payback?” Jaskier echoed, intrigued.

“One of my friends played a prank on me,” Kakashi explained, his tone more casual now, as though recounting an old memory. “So, I set one up for him. Only... when I surprised him, he panicked and stabbed me with a poisoned knife.”

Jaskier froze, eyes wide in disbelief. “Wait—poisoned? He stabbed you with poison over a prank?”

Kakashi just nodded, seemingly unconcerned. “Yeah, but he had the antidote. Didn’t hurt that much after it’d run its course.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped. “Didn’t... hurt that much?!” He glanced at Geralt as if to gauge whether this was typical Witcher behavior, but Geralt just grunted and kept walking.

Kakashi chuckled again, clearly finding the bard’s reaction entertaining. “It’s fine. He felt bad afterward.”

Geralt, though silent, understood. It wasn’t uncommon for those who’d been through the worst to brush off injuries, to find humor in things that might disturb others. Kakashi was no different, though his story seemed to baffle Jaskier completely.

Jaskier, now thoroughly confused but trying to remain composed, gave a hesitant smile. “Right... Well, remind me never to play any pranks on you, lad. I like my insides right where they are.”

Kakashi just smirked. “Noted.”

And with that, the boy returned to listening, leaving Jaskier torn between intrigue and concern as the conversation settled back into its usual rhythm, with the bard now eyeing Kakashi warily, as though he weren’t entirely sure what to make of him anymore.

As the conversation lulled, Jaskier remained contemplative for a moment, clearly mulling over Kakashi’s nonchalance about getting stabbed. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, then brightened with another idea.

“You know,” Jaskier began, a familiar gleam in his eye that signaled yet another tale was about to unfold. “Since we’re on the subject of dangerous adventures, this one reminds me of a time when Geralt and I nearly starved in the mountains.” He glanced at Geralt for confirmation, who, as usual, remained silent but smirked subtly, letting Jaskier have his moment.

Kakashi glanced up, mildly intrigued. “Starved? You don’t seem the type to skip a meal.”

“Exactly! That’s the tragedy,” Jaskier lamented, his hands flailing dramatically. “We were traveling through the Skellige Isles—beautiful, but unforgiving in the winter, mind you—when we found ourselves completely out of food. I was certain I’d perish from hunger before we reached the next village. I even began writing my last ballad, The Bard Who Faded Away, in case my demise would be the stuff of legends.”

Geralt snorted softly, shaking his head as he kept his eyes on the road.

“Now, Geralt, ever the pragmatic one, wasn’t worried. He said we’d find something along the way. ‘Don’t worry, Jaskier,’ he told me, ‘I’ve lived off worse.’ But I couldn’t take any more of those dried meats or roots we’d been eating. I needed something real—something with flavor, you know?”

Kakashi’s gaze softened, though his expression remained neutral, listening intently as Jaskier’s voice grew more animated.

“So there we are, trudging through knee-deep snow, and I’m thinking my music career will end with a whimper, not a bang. When suddenly”—Jaskier’s eyes widened for dramatic effect—“Geralt pulls out his crossbow and shoots something down from the sky!”

Kakashi raised an eyebrow. “A bird?”

“Exactly!” Jaskier exclaimed, as if he couldn’t have planned a better response. “A massive bird, mind you, the size of a wild goose! And I think, ‘Ah, salvation!’ I was already picturing a grand feast, perhaps roasted over a roaring fire. But no.”

“No?” Kakashi echoed, clearly invested despite himself.

“No,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Geralt plucks the thing, roasts it over a modest fire… and it tastes like leather. Old leather. Not a scrap of flavor to be found. The skin was tough, the meat was stringy—it was like chewing on an old boot.” He gave Geralt a sidelong glance. “Though of course, he ate it like it was a delicacy.”

Geralt huffed, eyes narrowing as he shot a brief glance over his shoulder. “Food’s food.”

“Food’s food,” Jaskier mimicked, waving his hand dismissively. “But you didn’t have to eat it with such smug satisfaction, you know. Meanwhile, I was left gnawing on something that could double as armor.”

Kakashi’s lip twitched, suppressing a smile. “Sounds rough.”

“Oh, it was,” Jaskier said gravely. “But it didn’t stop there. You see, we were low on provisions for days, and all we had to sustain us was more of that tasteless bird. I thought I’d be hallucinating from hunger by the end of it.”

“But you didn’t,” Geralt said, his voice dry and clipped as he shot Jaskier a look.

“No, I didn’t,” Jaskier admitted with a mock sigh, “but I came close! After that, I made a vow—never again would I go without good food. And so, whenever we’re near a village, I make sure to stock up on proper supplies. Geralt might be able to live off rocks and tree bark, but I am a man of finer tastes.”

Kakashi gave a small chuckle, amused by the image of Jaskier dramatically wasting away over such trivialities. “And did you keep that vow?”

Jaskier grinned, raising a finger to his lips. “Oh, absolutely. And that’s why I’m the one who’s in charge of food when we travel. It’s a matter of survival, you understand.”

Geralt let out a low grunt. “Or it’s a matter of not hearing you complain.”

Jaskier waved him off. “Details, Geralt, details.”

As the bard finished his tale, Kakashi’s smile lingered, softer now. The absurdity of Jaskier’s stories, along with the familiar banter between him and Geralt, had clearly brought a little more lightness into their journey. The warmth of the conversation was enough to ease the road ahead.

Geralt glanced back again, catching the faint smile on Kakashi’s face. It seemed the bard’s stories were working—Kakashi was opening up, bit by bit.