Witcher Gonna Do

The streets of the small town were narrow, hemmed in by ramshackle houses and weathered homes with peeling paint and sagging roofs. Vendors’ stalls, sparsely populated, lined the dirt path, their wares dull and unremarkable. There was no lively banter, no calls to passersby to inspect goods. Instead, silence draped over the place, broken only by the crunch of boots on frozen earth. The air felt heavy, not just from the winter cold but from the weight of the glares that followed them. Geralt was used to distrust in towns like this—mutters of “mutant” and the way villagers hid themselves as he passed. Geralt noticed the shift immediately: the way heads turned as they passed, how doors creaked open just wide enough for suspicious eyes to peer through before slamming shut.

Suspicion hung in the air like smoke. Eyes followed them from behind shuttered windows and cracked doors, their gazes darting away too quickly when met. It wasn’t the first time he’d drawn attention, but there was something uglier about it here. The glares lingered, edged with something more than the usual distrust of Witchers. Something that bordered fear and hate in equal measure. He caught fragments of muttered words from a cluster of men near a wagon. The moment their group came into view, the men stopped talking, their shoulders stiffening as they stared openly. Their muttered words cut off as if swallowed by the chill. Their gaze focused first on Geralt before shifting to Kakashi as disgust bloomed openly in their expressions. The kid’s pale hair and sharp features stood out against the dreary backdrop, marking him as different—inhuman. That he looked no older than twelve only seemed to deepen their revulsion. Child Witchers weren’t supposed to exist anymore. Most people didn’t even remember they had ever existed, but these villagers clearly did, and their reactions said enough.

“Devil spawn.” The whisper caught the wind, as shudders creaked and those on the road stopped to stare, seemingly caught between pressing closer and skirting away. Their fear was like a tangible force, buzzing in the cold air. Geralt’s sharp gaze swept over them, lingering on a man gripping a pitchfork too tightly and a woman clutching her child as though his very presence might infect them. A boy peeked out from behind her skirt, wide-eyed and trembling. For a moment, the child’s gaze met Kakashi’s. Geralt caught the boy’s slight hesitation, a flicker of curiosity before the mother’s hand yanked him back.

Witchers rarely received warm welcomes. But Geralt’s instincts prickled at the back of his neck, honed by years of walking into places where he wasn’t wanted. Now, though, the hostility wasn’t just directed at him. The way the townspeople looked at Kakashi—furtive, almost fearful—stirred an unfamiliar unease in Geralt. He wasn’t used to his travel companions being treated with as much distrust as he was. Let alone a child being treated as such.

“Keep walking,” Geralt said, his voice low. He glanced back briefly, catching the way Kakashi’s mask shifted as the boy adjusted it, a small movement that would better hide his features. If this was the result of practicality or nerves was yet to be seen.

The kid walked beside him with his usual calm, his light steps silent even on packed snow, unhurried despite the weight of so many eyes. His silver hair caught the pale light filtering through a slate-gray sky, a similar color to Geralt’s own and in direct contrast to the town’s people. The wolfish sharpness of Kakashi’s features, and diminutive size seemed to unsettle the townsfolk as much as Geralt’s own presence. Kakashi’s face was calm, in the same set it had held since they left the woods, his posture relaxed despite the tension that clung to the streets. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice the stares. Geralt could tell by the subtle shift of his eyes, the way his hand brushed the hilt of the knife tucked at his waist beneath his cloak. He noticed. He just didn’t care. And if he did care? He hid it well. Too well. Geralt thought grimly.

Behind them, Jaskier trailed, his lute case slung over one shoulder. The bard was unusually quiet, his typical chatter subdued as he glanced between the villagers and Geralt. The bard’s shoulders hunched, and his hand hovered near his lute—a nervous habit Geralt had seen more than once. His head turned just enough to catch snippets of the muttered insults from the villagers, but his mouth, for once, stayed shut. His eyes darted to the faces of the villagers with uncharacteristic caution. Even he could feel the tension in the air, though it didn’t stop him from offering Kakashi a reassuring smile when the boy looked back briefly. The bard followed with an uneasy glance toward the gawking villagers. “Ah, they really roll out the red carpet, don’t they?” he muttered, one hand gripping the strap of his lute case seeking some comfort from the action. “Nothing like a welcoming committee of pitchforks and scowls to make one feel at home.” The words were offered lightly, or well… As lightly as could come across given the atmosphere they found themselves in. 

“They could at least try to act civilized,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt didn’t respond. His focus was on the inn up ahead, its sagging roof and cracked shutters doing little to inspire confidence. Its sign creaked on rusted hinges, a painted image of a mare so faded it was barely recognizable. The Rested Mare, the lettering read, though the droop of the roof and grime-streaked windows made it look anything but restful. The building was squat and lopsided, its roof patched with mismatched shingles. Still, the faint flicker of firelight inside offered the promise of warmth, a roof over their heads, and maybe a decent meal—assuming they could get past the man Geralt spotted through the window. The innkeeper, a rotund figure with a balding head, leaned against the counter, his expression gruff even before they entered.

The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open, the sound cutting through the low murmur of conversation inside. Geralt led the way inside, where the warmth of the hearth should’ve been welcoming but felt anything but. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, the muted hum of conversation inside ceased. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled toward them, the patrons going still like deer scenting a predator. Geralt felt the weight of their stares as his eyes swept the room, assessing. A scattering of rough-looking men nursed mugs of ale at the tables, their postures stiffening as they noticed his swords. The air, heavy with the aroma of stale ale and wood smoke, seemed to chill despite the crackling hearth. A serving girl in the corner froze mid-step, her knuckles white around the handle of a pitcher. Geralt’s gaze lingered, noting the way the patrons shifted uncomfortably, their hands tightening on mugs and cutlery. No one said a word, but the message was clear: they weren’t welcome.

Kakashi entered behind him without hesitation, his movement smooth and unbothered, as though the weight of the patron’s hostility didn’t touch him. His gaze swept the room, sharp and calculating, though his posture remained relaxed. Jaskier hesitated in the doorway, his usual bravado dimmed as he took in the unwelcoming stares. He gave a nervous laugh, brushing imaginary dust from his doublet. “Charming place,” he murmured, just loud enough for Geralt to hear.

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed the moment they approached the counter. His gaze lingered on Geralt’s swords, then flicked to Kakashi with a look that was harder to read but no less unfriendly. The man’s gaze darted between Geralt and Kakashi, his expression darkening when it lingered on the boy. His jaw tightened visibly, as though he’d bitten into something sour. Geralt caught the barest flicker of something—disgust? or fear, maybe?—before the man’s shoulders tensed, bracing for trouble.

“We’ll need a room,” Geralt said, his voice low and to the point. “For the night.” His tone betraying none of his irritation.

The innkeeper didn’t respond immediately. He wiped his hands on a filthy rag with more force than necessary, stalling. “No rooms,” he said finally, his tone clipped. He refused to look at Geralt.

Geralt glanced around at the half-empty tables before tilting his head, unimpressed. “Place doesn’t look full.”

“It is,” the man snapped, the words sharp as a blade. He glanced at Kakashi again, eyes narrowing as if the boy’s very presence offended him. Something in his posture stiffened as he tore his gaze back to Geralt’s swords, holding back a more violent response. “No space for your kind here.” He spit out instead, voice raising an octave.

Geralt’s jaw clenched. His gaze bore into the man, but the innkeeper refused to meet his eyes. He felt the familiar stir of irritation but kept his expression neutral. He let the silence stretch, heavy and uncomfortable, watching the innkeeper squirm under his gaze. The innkeeper shifted uneasily, but his resolve held firm. Behind him, Kakashi stood quietly, unbothered, though Geralt caught the briefest flicker of resignation in the kid’s expression. It wasn’t the first time Kakashi had been turned away like this—Geralt could see that much.

Jaskier ever the peacemaker, stepped forward, his smile as bright and insincere as polished brass. “Ah, come now, my good man.” The bard’s smile was light, his tone as smooth as silk. “We’re just passing through. A humble bard and his companions, looking for a bit of rest and a warm meal. Surely you’ve got space for—”

“I said no.” The innkeeper’s voice cut through Jaskier’s words with the grace of a hammer. He stood straighter, his hands white knuckled from gripping the counter to steady himself. The shift in his demeanor left no room for negotiation.

Geralt’s patience frayed and his teeth ground. He shifted his weight slightly, the gesture making the swords on his back catch the firelight. The innkeeper flinched but didn’t back down. Geralt didn’t bother to hide the irritation in his voice as he tried again, tone practically frigid. “Food, then.”

From the corner of his eye, Geralt noticed Kakashi watching the exchange, his face blank save for a slight narrowing of his visible eye. The boy’s posture remained steady, his hands resting loosely at his sides, but there was a tension in his frame that Geralt couldn’t ignore. It was a quiet readiness, the kind that spoke of experience and the expectation of a violent outcome.

The innkeeper’s eyes darted between Geralt and Kakashi, swallowing, but his resolve didn’t waver. His lips pressed into a thin line before he shook his head. “I won’t serve you.”

The finality in his tone made it clear the conversation was over. Geralt’s fingers twitched toward the edge of his cloak, but he stilled himself. Jaskier opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Geralt shot him a look that silenced the bard before he could make things worse. They weren’t getting anywhere here.

With a slow exhale, Geralt turned without another word, his hand already on the door. As he pushed it open with more force than necessary, the bitter chill of the evening air rushed in to meet them. “We’ll camp outside.”

The cold night greeted them as they stepped back onto the street. Jaskier threw his arms wide, spinning to face them in a theatrical display of exasperation. “Well, that went splendidly. A truly warm reception.” He dropped his hands as a gust cut through to the unprotected warmth of his sides. The frigid wind quickly cooled the outer layer of his clothing and threatened to seem inward. “Remind me again why we travel to places like this?” He whined with a shiver.

Kakashi simply pulled his cloak tighter around his slight frame, unfazed by the sharpness of the cold wind. He adjusted the strap of his pack with practiced efficiency and scanned their surroundings, already preparing for plan B.  “I don’t mind camping,” he said softly, his voice carrying a steadiness and slight amusement that prompted Geralt to double take. It was fucking cold, and even Geralt had some reservations about camping outside in this weather, but there was nothing to be done. They would get no shelter here.

Geralt glanced at the kid, watching as he moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times before. No complaints, no discomfort—just the practical acceptance of a situation that couldn’t be changed. It was the resigned calm of someone used to being treated this way—someone who expected it. Geralt’s chest tightened. Kakashi was young, young enough to still be in training at one of the schools, not turned away from basic shelter, though he quickly buried the thought.

“We’ll find a spot near the trees,” Geralt said gruffly. His eyes scanned the edge of the village, where the silhouette of the forest loomed dark and inviting before gesturing toward the dark outline of the forest. “Jaskier, get supplies.”

Jaskier gave an exaggerated bow, his tone dripping with mock formality. “Leave it to me. I’ll charm this delightful little town into surrendering their finest provisions.” He straightened, flashing Kakashi a quick wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring something worth eating.”

Geralt grunted in response, he wasn’t holding his breath for anything special, before heading toward the outskirts. They’d be lucky if the bard managed to get anything at all with the mood of the townsfolk, but it was better than trying to press their luck further. 

Geralt watched him go before turning to Kakashi. The wind cut sharper now, but it wasn’t the cold setting his teeth on edge. “Stay close.”

The kid nodded, his movements steady as they began making their way toward the outskirts of town. Kakashi followed soundlessly, his movements so quiet they seemed to blend with the stillness of the night. The tension of the village clung to them like smoke, the eyes of the townsfolk lingering on their backs even as the shadows of the trees welcomed them.

As they made their way toward the edge of the woods, Kakashi’s gaze flicked to the horizon, the fading sunlight streaking the sky with muted shades of orange and violet. His breath puffed in steady wisps in the cold air, his steps soundless despite the crunch of frost-laden earth beneath their boots. His posture remained steady, but Geralt caught the way his steps fell just a touch too lightly for the soundlessness of the terrain. Kakashi’s movements were always quiet, but this… this was intentional. Like a shadow trying not to be noticed, even when no one was around to hear. Geralt’s own boots crunched faintly with each step, the sound biting at the silence of the forest, but Kakashi moved as though the earth itself bent to his will. 

Geralt’s breath puffed into the crisp air, each exhale curling into the wind before vanishing. His sharp eyes flicked sideways, catching Kakashi’s hand as it adjusted the edge of his cloak against the biting chill. He barely shivered, though the cold was sharp enough to creep through Geralt’s armor, setting his skin on edge. That resistance wasn’t just resilience; it was endurance born of necessity. Geralt knew it when he saw it—the kind of hardened acceptance only years of exposure could create.

“You’re used to this,” Geralt commented, his tone casual but observant.

Kakashi shrugged, the motion barely noticeable under his cloak. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

The words were simple, detached, but they settled uneasily in Geralt’s mind. It wasn’t the statement itself—he’d heard plenty of people say the same—but the way Kakashi delivered it. No bitterness. No hint of complaint. Just another night, another town, another refusal. Just a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was the kind of response Geralt had only ever heard from those who’d long since stopped hoping for anything better. People like that didn’t just endure hardship; they carried it, bore it in silence, because there wasn’t another choice.

Geralt glanced at him again, watching for any crack in the boy’s calm exterior. There was none. Kakashi’s eye—dark, watchful—remained focused ahead, giving away nothing. Still, Geralt couldn’t shake the thought: How young was he when he learned to live like this? The thought lingered, heavier than he liked.

Grunting, Geralt pulled his own cloak tighter against the wind. “We won’t be here long.”

Kakashi didn’t respond. His gaze flickered, just briefly, but it carried that same quiet resignation Geralt had seen before. The kind that said it doesn’t matter; it’s all the same. It grated at him more than it should have. Geralt wasn’t one to pry, but that look—it didn’t belong on a face so young, Witcher or not.

By the time they reached the forest's edge, the last light of day had vanished. The woods were silent, save for the occasional rustle of branches in the wind.  Shadows stretched long and heavy between the trees, and the wind whispered through the branches with an eerie, hollow sound. Geralt led them to a sheltered spot between the thick trunks of ancient pines. They worked in unspoken tandem, gathering firewood and arranging it into a small, efficient pile. Kakashi moved with a precision that mirrored Geralt’s own, his hands deft and quick as he stacked kindling with quiet ease. Too quiet. The boy handled the task almost too quietly, as if avoiding drawing attention even now,  as though drawing even the slightest attention was a risk he couldn’t afford.

When the fire finally crackled to life,its warm glow barely reached beyond the nearest tree roots, leaving the rest of the forest in heavy shadow. Geralt dropped to a crouch beside the flames, his gloved hands extended toward the meager heat. He cast another glance at Kakashi, who had settled a few feet away, cross-legged on the cold ground. His cloak wrapped tightly around his frame, leaving only his face visible—half-hidden by that ever-present mask. His half-lidded gaze remained fixed on the fire, unreadable—but not empty—perhaps lost in thought or memories.

The night air was cold, biting even through his armor, but it didn’t seem to bother Kakashi much. The boy didn’t fidget. Didn’t shiver. Didn’t shift to ease the cold, even when the wind picked up and tugged at his cloak. He might as well have been carved from stone. If Geralt hadn’t been watching closely, he might’ve believed Kakashi was unaffected, but a slight twitch of the boy’s fingers betrayed him. Barely perceptible, but enough for someone like Geralt to notice.

Even he feels it, Geralt thought, and for some reason, the observation unsettled him. Kakashi’s endurance was impressive, no doubt, but it bordered on unnatural. Or maybe just… trained. Painfully so. That subtle tell—it almost made Geralt feel guilty for noticing.

Geralt’s sharp ears caught every small sound around them—the crackle of burning wood, the distant rustle of leaves, the occasional creak of a tree swaying in the wind. But there was no sign of Jaskier. Not yet.

Geralt listened for the sound of Jaskier’s return, but the quiet of the forest was undisturbed. He wasn’t expecting much—he’d seen the way the town looked at them, and Jaskier wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous when it came to charming supplies out of unfriendly villagers. Towns like this always made his hackles rise. Small minds, big fears, and sharp tongues. Jaskier wasn’t likely to find much kindness there, but if anyone could talk their way into a spare loaf of bread, it’d be him. The bard had a way of pulling through when it mattered. Usually. The wind picked up, sending a shiver through the branches. 

“Not hungry?” Geralt asked, breaking the quiet.

Kakashi didn’t look up, his gaze still trained on the flickering fire. “Not yet.”

The kid was lying. Geralt could hear the faint gurgle of Kakashi’s stomach even from where he sat, though Kakashi made no move to acknowledge it. Typical. Geralt sighed, leaning back against a nearby log, his arms crossing over his chest. “He’ll bring something,” he muttered, almost more to himself than to Kakashi.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The forest grew darker, the cold sharper. The fire’s glow flickering weakly against the growing darkness. Geralt’s senses stayed on edge, his ears tuned to the sounds of the forest. The occasional rustle of leaves, the groan of swaying branches, the distant scurry of small creatures. And then, finally, footsteps. Light but hurried, accompanied by the familiar discordant jangle of Jaskier’s lute case.

Geralt straightened, preparing for the bard’s return. Kakashi’s gaze shifted briefly toward the sound, but he stayed still as ever. The sound of snapping twigs announced Jaskier’s approach long before he emerged from the treeline. When he finally appeared, Geralt raised an eyebrow at the sight. Jaskier emerged into the firelight with a dramatic sigh. The bard’s cloak flapped against the wind, his face flushed from exertion. Pulling his cloak tighter, he dropped heavily onto the nearest patch of ground. He carried no sack, no bundle of goods—just a single loaf of bread, tucked under one arm.

“Superstitious idiots,” Jaskier muttered, waving a hand toward the distant village. His tone was bitter but carried an edge of forced cheer. “Didn’t even give me the courtesy of throwing rocks this time.”

Geralt arched a brow but said nothing. His gaze dropped to the loaf of bread tucked under Jaskier’s arm—small, pitiful, and visibly stale. A pang of irritation flared in his chest, not at Jaskier, but at the situation. At the village. At the damned world that seemed determined to make life harder for those who didn’t deserve it. 

The bard slumped forward, holding out the meager offering. “One loaf. Stale. Hard as a Witcher’s ass, probably, but it’s bread.”

Kakashi glanced at the loaf but made no move to take it. Geralt’s stomach churned, but not from hunger. He eyed the bread with distaste. It wouldn’t be enough—not for three people who’d gone nearly a day without a decent meal. He could go without. He’d done it before. Jaskier too. But Kakashi…

“Well,” Jaskier huffed with an air of dramatic resignation, “I’ll have you know, I tried. Oh, how I tried. But apparently, my charms are not as effective on people who think we’re some kind of traveling curse.”

Geralt glanced at the sad loaf of bread. “That's it then” He asked, his tone sharper than intended.

Jaskier waved a hand, still dejected. “Yes, that’s it! That’s all they’d part with. Apparently, Witchers and their strange companions aren’t worthy of much more than this.” He tossed the bread down to Geralt with a flourish, slumping back against a tree.

Kakashi didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked toward the bread, and Geralt caught the faintest hint of a frown. Jaskier sighed again, louder this time, as if the very act of going hungry was a personal affront.

“Well, it looks like we’re in for a meager night,” Jaskier lamented, louder this time, as if to fill the silence. “Unless you’re planning to go hunting, I’m afraid this is all we’ve got.”

“We’ll manage,” Geralt said gruffly, already deciding he’d skip his share. Jaskier would, too—he’d seen the bard make sacrifices before. He wasn’t about to let Kakashi go hungry, even if the kid wouldn’t admit he was starving. Hunger wasn’t something you could ignore forever after all.

Before anyone could divvy up the pitiful meal, Kakashi finally spoke. “You don’t have to.” He quietly reached for something, drawing their attention. Geralt’s sharp gaze snapped to him. Kakashi reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out something small and round. The way Kakashi held it—fingers steady, gaze calm—it looked like no more than a pebble.

“I have something,” Kakashi said, presenting the strange round pebble-like object. “Food pills.”

Jaskier blinked, leaning closer. “Food… what?”

Kakashi held up three small, spherical pills, each no larger than a marble. “They’re meant for emergencies. They don’t taste good, but they provide enough nutrients to keep you from starving.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, studying the pills. He’d never seen anything like them before. They didn’t look like any rations or provisions he’d come across, and there was something almost clinical about them. The kid spoke about them like they were perfectly normal, though, as if they were just another tool in his kit.

Jaskier, on the other hand, was already eyeing the pills with suspicion. “Those tiny things? You’re saying they’ll keep us fed?”

“It won’t fill you up,” Kakashi admitted. “Taste like dirt too. But it’s better than starving.”

Geralt exchanged a glance with Jaskier, whose expression was equal parts skeptical and curious. “You’re serious,” the bard said.

Kakashi simply nodded, his face unreadable but his tone final. “One each.”

Geralt wasn’t one to turn down a potential solution, especially when food was scarce. He extended his hand, and Kakashi dropped one of the pills into his palm. It felt light, almost fragile, and the smell… well, there wasn’t much of a smell at all. Just a faint, chalky scent.

Jaskier, however, was far less enthusiastic. “You’re not seriously thinking about eating one of those, are you?”

Geralt shrugged. “Better than nothing.”

He popped the pill into his mouth, biting down. Instantly, his face twisted in disgust. The taste hit him like a slap—bitter, chalky, and faintly metallic. It was like chewing on something that had no right to be called food—bland, with a bitter aftertaste that clung to his tongue. He swallowed it down quickly, grimacing as he did.

“Gods,” Geralt muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s terrible.”

Kakashi nodded. “I told you. They don’t taste good.”

Jaskier, watching the scene with growing horror, hesitated. “I… think I’ll pass.”

Kakashi held out the remaining pill to him. “It’s not about taste. It’ll keep you from starving.”

Jaskier looked between Kakashi and Geralt, then down at the pill, clearly torn between his stomach and his dignity. With a groan of defeat, he snatched it from Kakashi’s hand and stared at it like it was some kind of poison.

“Well,” Jaskier said, bracing himself, “here goes nothing.”

He tossed the pill into his mouth and immediately gagged, his face contorting into a look of pure revulsion. “Ugh! It’s worse than the bird!”

Geralt almost chuckled at the comparison but said nothing as Jaskier forced it down with great effort, coughing into his hand as if to rid himself of the taste.

“You weren’t kidding,” the bard gasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “That was… unspeakable. Is this what you call food where you’re from?”

Kakashi tucked the rest of his pills away, unfazed by their reactions. “They work. That’s all that matters.”

Geralt gave a small grunt of agreement, though the taste still lingered unpleasantly on his tongue. The kid was right—taste didn’t matter if it kept you alive. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder where Kakashi had gotten these things, and why he seemed so prepared for situations like this. The kid was more of a mystery than Geralt had first thought. The thought lingered in his mind as the pill settled in his stomach—not satisfying, not comforting, but enough. For now.

Jaskier, still recovering from the pill, leaned back with a pitiful sigh. “Well, I suppose we’re not starving. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to another meal like that.”

Geralt glanced at Kakashi, who seemed unbothered by the whole exchange. Used to this kind of life, used to the bare minimum. There was more to the kid’s story, but it wasn’t the time to pry.

For now, the fire crackled on, and they settled into the quiet of the woods, their makeshift camp feeling a little less desperate than before.

They set off the next morning. The road was quiet, save for the crunch of boots on the dirt path and the occasional birdsong filtering through the canopy. Jaskier hummed a tune under his breath, no doubt piecing together lyrics for some ballad he’d later embellish. Geralt paid it little mind. The kid—Kakashi—walked a few steps behind Jaskier, his gait even and unhurried, a far cry from the bard’s restless energy. He wasn’t whining, wasn’t dragging his feet. He moved like someone who knew how to conserve energy over long distances, a skill honed by necessity rather than leisure. If not for having traveled with Kakashi for several weeks by this point, he might’ve been impressed.

Geralt’s gaze swept the surrounding trees. The pale light of dawn filtered through the branches, casting shadows across the path ahead. The path ahead looked clear, but the air held a stillness that set his instincts on edge. There was something off, and he trusted his gut enough to know when trouble was brewing. He glanced back at Kakashi. The kid's expression remained neutral, his eye fixed on the horizon. He showed no signs of alarm, but Geralt figured he hadn’t seen enough monsters yet to spot the signs of impending ambush.

He's alert but not on edge. Geralt could see the sharpness in that single grey eye, an edge honed by years of training. Still, Geralt knew Kakashi wouldn’t recognize signs of monsters—not that Geralt was recognizing any right now either. Kakashi was trained against people, not monsters. But even still—something was wrong and he wasn’t picking up on it.

Jaskier was still oblivious, lost in his own world. He hummed a few bars louder, a cheerful counterpoint to the unease clawing at Geralt's gut. Geralt was about to tell him to quiet down when he caught the faint rustle of movement ahead. The Witcher raised a hand, signaling for quiet. Jaskier immediately fell silent, though his eyes darted nervously toward the trees. Kakashi's steps slowed as well, though his posture remained unchanged. His head tilted slightly, and Geralt noted the way his fingers twitched, almost imperceptibly. 

Good instincts. He hears it too.

At a quick nod both Kakashi and Jaskier fell in line, the bard fidgeting quietly as he followed Geralt’s lead. 

The rustling ahead grew louder—clumsy movement through the brush bringing forth sounds of leaves crunching, sticks snapping, and feet pounding the earth. Geralt didn't bother drawing his sword yet. It wasn't monsters. Too noisy, too careless. He moved, turning slightly to block Jaskier from view as the noise grew closer. Bandits.

Geralt raised a hand once more, signaling them to halt. Kakashi stopped immediately, his hand resting at his hip where one of those odd little knives was strapped. His eye swept the tree line, calm but intent. Not bad. Jaskier in turn, came to a clumsy stop. The bard glanced nervously at Geralt, shifting so that the Witcher was squarely in front of him. Jaskier would follow Geralt’s lead here. Their group reacted quickly enough to the warning. A good thing too—Trouble was close.

The rustling came moments later—brash and unpracticed, as if the bandits wanted their quarry to hear them coming. Idiots. Geralt’s lips pressed into a line as three men emerged from the brush, weapons already drawn. Two carried rusted swords; the third, their leader by his stance, wielded a chipped axe. 

Typical lowlifes—hungry for coin, too stupid to know better than to pick a fight with a Witcher—their faces twisted into sneers. Geralt didn’t even need to look at Kakashi to know the kid had already taken stock of the situation. He was relaxed. There was no difference in Kakashi’s posture or expression, but one of those strange knives had already made its way into the boy’s hand. His eye had never really lost its sharp focus during their morning travel, but now that the threat was revealed he seemed almost bored. Kakashi wasn’t as oblivious as Geralt had thought. Forgot his main prey used to be people. Geralt let out a small sigh. It wasn’t like him to forget such a detail. There were other things to focus on at the moment though.

The leader, a greasy-haired brute with a permanent sneer, stepped forward, puffing out his chest as though the display would intimidate them. Geralt met his gaze with the dispassionate calm of a predator sizing up lesser prey.

“Well, well,” the leader drawled, his voice dripping with arrogance as the blade of his axe made lazy circles. His gaze swept over the group. “What do we have here? A bard, a mutant, and a runt.” His hand tapping the handle of his blade on his shoulder with each word before swinging the axe head back down towards their group. He spoke slowly, savoring each word as though he thought them clever. “Must be my lucky day.”

His eyes lingered on Kakashi. Geralt's jaw tightened, but he kept his face impassive.

Beside him, Jaskier bristled. "You'd best think twice about that-"

"Quiet." Geralt's low command cut Jaskier off. 

The leader smirked, emboldened by what he likely interpreted as compliance. Geralt shifted his weight, studying the man.  His build was wiry but solid, built up by manual labor but a little too lean from a lack of food. He had likely lived by solid work previously before turning to banditry. Splitting firewood if he had to guess. This was further supported by his weapon of choice. He held his axe with some confidence, an echo of familiarity in the fluidness with which he handled it. The man’s grip was loose but firm, able to quickly maneuver the axe and grip loose enough to make use of a sliding hand position to take full advantage of gravity. Overall, the bandit leader was clearly comfortable with the weapon. His footwork however, screamed amateur. They were too close together and his knees too straight. Not to mention that the man’s feet were far too straight and planted as well. He wouldn’t be able to react quickly to an attack with a stance like that. A final evaluation proved that the bandit leader’s skill was minimal and his foundations weak. He’d be a nuisance, not a threat. Geralt wouldn’t have a problem taking him down. The others with their rusted swords had even worse foundations. Even their grip on the swords was wrong, using two hands for a one handed blade and sacrificing the integrity of their grip.

Geralt gave the leader a flat stare, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword. It was unlikely for these men to cause much damage to Geralt’s companions, and bloodshed may be unavoidable with the personality of the leader revealed, but it didn’t mean Geralt couldn’t try to limit the loss of life. He was inclined to try. 

“Walk away.” Geralt said, his voice low and cold. The glare he sent was enough to turn most desperate men away. Not this one though.

The bandit leader laughed, an ugly sound from an ugly face. He tapped the flat of his blade against his thigh, cocking his head like a dog sniffing out its next meal. His face twisted in epicaricacy, one eye wide, the other narrowed and head tilted slightly to the side. 

When he spoke next, his voice sounded like chalk met gravel, the malignance there unmistakable. “Not likely. We’ll be taking your coin. And maybe…” His gaze landed on Kakashi, lingering. “…the brat for good measure.” The bandit’s eyes trailed over Kakashi’s figure, sizing him up with a critical eye. “Sell him off. Kids fetch a good price these days.” The grin that split the bandit’s face was as disgusting as his words. 

Geralt felt the growl before it left his throat. Jaw tight enough to grind his teeth, his patience thin. He felt Jaskier stiffen behind him reaching out to comfort Kakashi, and he stepped slightly to the side, keeping himself between his companions—and the bandit. He glanced at Kakashi to reassure him or something along those lines, but found he didn't need to. The faintest shift in the boy's stance caught his eye—a subtle lowering of his center of gravity, his right hand brushing against his hip.

Knife's already in his hand.

And Geralt? Geralt was just about done playing nice. “Last warning.”

The bandit stepped forward, meeting Geralt’s warning with a challenge. It seemed this fight would be happening and Geralt knew he had done what he could to avoid it. Jaskier better not complain later. He stepped forward, his hand already brushing the hilt of his sword.

The bandit laughed, an ugly, guttural sound. "Not a cha-"

He didn't get to finish. Kakashi moved.

The boy was a blur. One moment he was still, the next he was on the bandit leader, his knife slashing in a clean arc. Blood spattered the ground, bright against the dirt path. The leader staggered back. His axe fell as his fingers came up, clutching his split throat as crimson bubbled between the gaps. Between one second and the next, he hit the ground with a wet thud, already lifeless before the ground felt his impact. He was dead before his companions could even think to react.

Jaskier gasped sharply, stumbling back. His hand shot out to grip Geralt's arm, his fingers trembling. "What the-"

But Geralt didn't have time to reassure him. The remaining two bandits froze, their weapons trembling in their hands. Their bravado evaporated as they stared at their fallen leader. That was all the opening Geralt needed. 

Geralt wasted no time. His sword sang as it left its sheath, and he closed the distance in a single stride. His blade hissed as it cut through the air. The second man swung wildly, fear making him sloppy. Geralt stepped into the first bandit’s reach, parrying a wild fear driven swing, his riposte swift and brutal. Driving his blade cleanly through the man’s shoulder served damage enough to disarm. The bandit screamed, dropping his sword as he crumpled to the ground. Geralt kicked him backward, sending him sprawling. Better to go overboard than under.

The third turned to flee, but Kakashi was faster. He darted after the man with a predator’s grace. The boy's blade slashed across the back of the man's knee, dropping him with a cry of pain and following with an effective leg sweep. The bandit hit the dirt hard, coughing on a choked howl of pain as Kakashi planted a knee on his back and held his blade to the man’s throat. Kakashi pressed the tip of his knife into the man's throat, his eye cold and unblinking.

Geralt turned, scanning the scene. One dead, one disarmed, and one pinned beneath Kakashi's blade. Efficient, but not clean. Jaskier stood frozen a few paces back, his face white, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he stared at Kakashi.

Geralt’s eyes flicked between the fallen men and Kakashi, who was holding his captive in place without a hint of hesitation. Kakashi’s eye was sharp, almost unnervingly so. He wasn’t panting, wasn’t shaking. If anything, he looked bored. Geralt stalked closer, taking in the blood dripping from the knife in Kakashi’s hand. The boy’s eye was trained on Geralt, blade pressing into the bandit’s throat but waiting for Geralt’s kill order. The skill was impressive, though the ice in his eye left Geralt off balance. Just enough to have Geralt freezing in place for half a second. 

There was no humanity in the boy’s eye at that moment in time. No recognition of human life. He was just waiting for the order. Like any monster Geralt was sent to kill, there was no compassion, no light in Kakashi’s eye. He recognized the trained hunting instinct when he saw it. That mix of calm, deadly focus that Witchers often had in a hunt, corrupted by the loss of The Path. Kakashi may not know enough to hunt monsters yet, but he hunted well with his intended prey. That was part of what nauseated Geralt. Whoever made the kid, made a monster on a leash. And now that leash was in Geralt’s hands. Unlike the original holders however, Geralt was resolved to guide the boy differently. This was why they needed Vesemir, he’d know how to train The Path back into Kakashi.

“You still want to take the brat?” Geralt’s voice cut through the silence, glancing between the dead leader, the man in Kakashi’s hold, and the final member sprawled out on the ground, who was now wide-eyed and trembling as he lifted himself up. Geralt started walking towards the remaining bandit, disarmed and sprawled as he might be.

The man on the ground whimpered, scrambling back as Geralt’s shadow fell over him. “No! P-please,” the man stammered, voice shaking. He trembled as he scurried backwards, backing away on his hands and butt. “I—I didn’t mean—just let me go. I won’t—I won’t bother you again.”

“You sure about that?” Geralt growled. The bandit continued to cower, hands shaking too much to pick up his weapon and eyes blown wide with fear. This man knew he was staring death in the face, and if the wet spot Geralt could barely see forming beneath the grime of the man’s pants was what he thought it was? They wouldn’t be harming anyone any time soon. He sheathed his sword with a decisive click and glanced at Kakashi. “Let him up.”

For a moment, the boy didn’t move. His blade hovered against the bandit’s throat, his grip steady. His blade remained pressed to the man's throat, his eye flicking to Geralt. Confusion was clear in his expression and the tilt to his head. Every muscle of the boy’s body was tensed. He’d clearly been expecting a kill order, not a release. There was no hesitation in his gaze, only a silent question: Why?

"Now," Geralt said, his tone firm.

Then, without a word, Kakashi withdrew the knife and stood. He stepped back, his expression unreadable as he watched the bandit scramble to his feet and bolt into the trees. He didn't sheath his blade until the man was out of sight. Geralt gave him a nod, silently approving of the kid's acceptance of the order. He was willing to listen, at least.

“Go,” Geralt said, his voice like ice as he trained a cold glare on the remaining bandits. “And take your dead with you.” His hand gestured slightly to the dead leader. The bone of the man’s spine and the white of severed cartilage slightly visible as the bleeding had long come to a stop. The ground below him had soaked through long before their short battle had reached its conclusion.

The bandit didn’t need to be told twice. The man still on the ground scrambled to his feet, calling his freed comrade to help in grabbing their dead leader and dragging him back into the woods. The bandits grabbed their companion’s limp body by the arms and dragged him toward the trees, their ragged breathing the only sound as they disappeared into the underbrush. Kakashi watched them flee with a cold, blank expression. 

The quiet that followed felt heavier than before.

Jaskier was still rooted to the spot, his lute hanging limp at his side while his hands gripped the cross strap tightly with a noticeable tremor. His face was pale, his mouth slightly open as he stared at Kakashi. Jaskier let out a shaky breath. "Gods above, Kakashi... That was.." He trailed off, swallowing hard. "I didn't realize..."

Jaskier paused, taking a deep breath to center himself when he saw the blank look in Kakashi’s eye. Geralt could tell that the bard was scared, terrified even, as he recentered himself and tried to shut down his reaction. Jaskier had been getting along with Kakashi after several weeks of travel and his reaction could ruin that if he didn’t calm down. 

Jaskier’s voice when he spoke once more was much calmer if still very unsteady. “Well, that was… something. You know, I’ve never quite gotten used to the whole ‘brutally dispatching bandits’ part of our travels.” Jaskier let out a breath he’d been holding. “I—I think I’ll need a drink later,” he muttered, his voice quavering. “Or several. Gods above.”

Geralt glanced at the bard, frowning slightly. “You’ve seen worse.” Jaskier had gotten over this with Geralt long ago, it shouldn’t be such a big deal now with Kakashi.

“Not from him,” Jaskier shot back, his gaze darting toward Kakashi. “He’s—he’s just a boy, Geralt. A child. And the way he—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard as he turned away. That gave Geralt pause for a moment.

Kakashi said nothing. He crouched by where the dead leader’s body had been, wiping his blade on a clean patch of grass nearby before slipping it back into its pouch. His face betrayed no emotion, but there was a quiet tension in the set of his shoulders, like a drawn bowstring waiting to snap.

Ah, realization dawned as he watched Kakashi’s actions. Geralt hadn’t exactly told Jaskier about Kakashi’s unique training, other than the fact that the kid didn’t know how to hunt monsters yet. He hadn’t exactly mentioned that the kid was already trained to hunt down the prey Kakashi’s organization had originally designed for the boy. Geralt could tell Jaskier was worried under the current of fear that still muddled the bard’s mind.

Geralt wiped his sword on the grass before returning it to its sheath, following Kakashi’s lead. It was good weapon care to limit long term exposure to blood. "He's trained for this." Geralt explained. Perhaps that would help assuage the bard’s anxiety about Kakashi’s safety.

Jaskier's gaze darted to Kakashi, his face a mix of confusion and unease. The boy met his stare with the same calm detachment he always wore, though Geralt didn't miss the faint tension in his jaw. Waiting to be judged.

"Trained for what?" Jaskier asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Geralt didn't answer, didn’t want to. Kakashi could decide when to reveal that. Instead, he turned back to the road, his hand resting briefly on Kakashi's shoulder as he passed. The boy followed without a word, his steps silent but measured.

Jaskier hesitated, his eyes lingering on the bloodied soil before hurrying to catch up.

Geralt grunted, glancing at Jaskier as he settled next to Kakashi. Geralt’s eyes flicked to Kakashi, before speaking quietly. “Get used to it.” 

He hoped Jaskier got the hint. He didn’t need Kakashi running off again because Jaskier made him uncomfortable.

Geralt turned and studied Kakashi for a long moment. The kid’s movements had been efficient, practiced. There was something smooth about the way he’d killed—it wasn’t instinct but muscle memory that’d made the kill so easy. He had known Kakashi was trained for assassination, but knowing and seeing were too different things. Geralt’s jaw tightened. If Kakashi’s organization weren’t already at the top of people Geralt wanted to hunt down, they would be now.

“Let’s move,” he said gruffly, turning to lead the group along the path once more.

Jaskier lingered for a moment, his hands trembling as he adjusted the strap of his lute. Kakashi, already following, didn’t so much as glance back at the bard. Geralt followed, his thoughts churning like a storm.

Kakashi didn’t hesitate. Not once. It wasn’t fearlessness—it was experience. And worse, there was a complete disregard to the weight of a life. And Geralt? Geralt couldn’t decide which unnerved him more: the boy’s ruthless efficiency, or how much it reminded him of his own youth.

The kid’s calmness after a fight reminded him of those early days, fresh out of Kaer Morhen, when killing was just a part of life. He couldn’t help but wonder just how much of that similarity was due to Kakashi’s training and how much was the mutation.

Jaskier had been obviously thinking about Geralt's earlier words since he’d spoken them. They’d only been moving for a few minutes when Geralt saw the talk take effect. It seemed the thought got through more than expected because before they’d gotten more than a few steps forward, Jaskier had dug out his own extra cloak and took quick steps forward, wrapping it tightly around Kakashi. The boy froze mid step as the large warm cloth practically swamped his small figure.

“You’ll freeze in this cold if you don’t cover up!” The bard hummed warmly. The fear was still there in the slight tremble of his fingers, but the strength of his palms and arms overpowered it as he pulled the boy into a side hug. Disregarding the boy’s pause, Jaskier continued. A little levity made its way back into his tone as he rubbed the boy’s arms through the fresh cloak. “You should have dodged the blood spray a little better kid! It's gonna freeze solid, and you with it, in this weather.”

Kakashi slowly relaxed, looking up at Jaskier. Geralt could see the frost that had taken over the boy’s gaze since the fight slowly crack and melt. He looked grateful—not for the cloak, but for Jaskier’s acceptance. Jaskier’s actions had essentially said, ‘so you’re a little more murder-y than I thought, but that doesn’t change anything! You’re still the baby. Period.’

The boy looked down, blinking several times before looking back up at Jaskier. His voice was warm and filled with something genuine. “Thank you.”

Jaskier’s response was a soft, “anytime” punctuated by a hair ruffle.

The tender moment was promptly ruined when Jaskier let out an excited exclamation. “It’s so soft!” His hand, currently buried in the boy’s static charged hair, was quickly joined by Jaskier’s other hand.

“Geralt! Have you felt this? It’s so wonderfully soft!” The bard was loud and excited. His previous tension temporarily forgotten. Kakashi let out a grunt before ducking, rushing forward a few steps to escape Jaskier’s grabby hands, although Geralt could see a hint of a smile behind the annoyed scowl. The bard continued to wax poetic about the boy’s ‘softer than down feathers’ hair. Geralt let out a small chuff of a chuckle. It was good to see the tension between them evaporating.

As the trio continued down the dirt road, the memory of the scuffle faded like the distant sound of a dropped coin. Geralt’s thoughts lingered on Kakashi. But Jaskier, for now, wasn’t about to ask. Instead the bard was content to go back to his old ways of waxing poetic about the newly discovered secret treasure that was the softness of Kakashi’s hair.

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the path ahead in streaks of amber and shadow. The road stretched ahead, a winding path of packed dirt and loose stones, now softened by a thin layer of fresh snow. Bare trees arched overhead, their skeletal branches outlined in white against the pale, overcast sky. The air was sharp with the bite of winter, carrying the faint scent of snow and woodsmoke from some distant hearth.

Jaskier, a few steps ahead, filled the space with a low hum, his voice weaving a jaunty tune that didn’t quite match the heavy quiet lingering from the earlier confrontation. His lute was slung over his back, swaying slightly with each step, but his hands rested idly at his sides, brushing his coat. He seemed at ease, but Geralt caught the occasional glance over his shoulder, his brow furrowing as if gauging the mood behind him.

Kakashi, just a step behind Geralt, was unusually quiet. It wasn’t the kind of silence born of weariness; it was the silence of calculation, of thoughts swirling beneath the surface. Geralt had come to recognize it in the boy during their travels. It was the kind of stillness that meant a question was brewing.

“Why didn’t we just kill them?” Kakashi’s voice finally broke the silence, soft and neutral, curious rather than judgmental. It was spoken with the same weight that one might use when inquiring about the weather.

The question landed heavier than the boy’s tone suggested, but Geralt didn’t look back immediately. It was direct, with none of the hesitancy or uncertainty he might expect from a child Kakashi’s age. Of course, that shouldn’t have surprised him anymore—nothing about Kakashi fit neatly into any expectation.

His eyes stayed on the road ahead, scanning the shadows that stretched across the uneven ground. “They weren’t a threat anymore,” he answered evenly. His hand came to rest lightly on the hilt of his sword as he walked, though the tension of the encounter had long since left his body. “Killing’s not always the answer. Better to leave them alive with a lesson learned.”

Kakashi’s brow furrowed and his pace slowed slightly. Geralt felt the weight of the boy’s eyes on his back. “But they attacked us,” Kakashi pressed, his voice still calm, but laced with a quiet curiosity and almost a reprimand creeping into his tone.

Geralt glanced over his shoulder, meeting Kakashi’s gaze briefly. The boy’s expression wasn’t exactly angry or confused—it was thoughtful, analytical, as if he were trying to reconcile Geralt’s answer with his own understanding of the world.

“They did,” Geralt replied with a slight nod, his tone steady. “And I took care of it. There’s a difference between self-defense and slaughter.”

Kakashi’s brow furrowed slightly, his single grey eye sharp with thought. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze dropped to the ground for a moment, his expression one of quiet concentration.

Geralt recognized that look. It was the same one Kakashi wore when he was puzzling over something he didn’t quite understand—or perhaps something he understood too well but couldn’t reconcile with what he was seeing now. It was a look that Geralt had come to associate with more internal questions Kakashi wasn’t voicing just yet.

After a long moment, Kakashi spoke again, his tone more contemplative. “Where I come from, people like that… they wouldn’t have been left alive.”

The admission came without hesitation, and Geralt turned fully this time, slowing his steps until he matched the boy’s pace. He studied Kakashi’s face, noting the faint shadow that crossed his features, the way his shoulders tensed slightly under his cloak. Whatever experiences had shaped Kakashi, wherever he’d come from, it was clear that mercy wasn’t often on the table. 

“That how your father taught you?” Geralt asked, his tone low and careful, probing but without judgment.

Kakashi’s reaction was subtle but telling. His mouth tightened ever so slightly, and his gaze flickered away, focusing on a point somewhere to the side of the road. Geralt caught the faint shift of his shoulders, a barely-there tightening before it smoothed away with the rest of his body language. “It was just common sense,” he said after a beat, the words clipped but deliberate.

Geralt frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he turned the phrase over in his mind. Common sense. There was no emotion in the way Kakashi said it, no bitterness or regret—just a matter-of-fact acceptance. It told him more than the boy likely intended.

There was a cold practicality to Kakashi’s logic, one Geralt recognized from hardened mercenaries and Witchers who’d lived too long.  It reminded Geralt of men shaped into tools by war—soldiers stripped down by necessity, their humanity left behind on some distant battlefield. But Kakashi was too young to be so hardened. He was sharp, yes—dangerous, even—but there was still a rawness to him, an unpolished edge that spoke of a life spent surviving rather than living.

He glanced at Kakashi again, noting the way the boy’s face remained calm, composed, but not unfeeling. There was no anger in him, no bitterness. Just acceptance, quiet and resolute, like he’d made peace with whatever ghosts haunted him long ago. Or perhaps, Geralt thought grimly, he hadn’t had a choice.

Kill or be killed, like there had never been another option. It always seemed to come back to survival with Kakashi. He knew the Trials could break a boy, leave him cynical and detached, but Kakashi’s ills went deeper. He had not learned the Path, that much he’d already confirmed. That guidance was missing from the boy’s life. There was no world-weariness either, just a quiet resignation that made Geralt wonder what exactly the boy had been through. What exactly his training had entailed.

Geralt turned those words over again, glancing at the boy out of the corner of his eye. His posture was loose but not relaxed, his shoulders rolling back in a way that suggested readiness rather than comfort. There was a precision to Kakashi’s every movement, like he was always prepared for something to happen. It wasn’t nervousness—no, it was experience, muscle memory.

“Common sense like that,” Geralt said finally, his tone even, though his gaze lingered on the boy, “might keep you alive. But it can make you into something worse.” He paused as he considered the lesson he himself had learned long ago. “If we kill mindlessly, then we’re no different than the monsters we hunt.” Geralt finished, his voice rough but not unkind.

Kakashi’s step didn’t falter, though his head tilted slightly, the movement so small it might have been missed by someone less observant. A moment later, Kakashi’s single grey eye flicked toward him, unreadable as ever. His posture shifted slightly, his shoulders straightening.For a long moment, Kakashi didn’t respond. His footsteps were steady, deliberate, as though he were weighing his answer with the same precision. It seemed he might let the statement pass without comment. Then, quietly, he said, “It can. It did.”

The words settled heavily between them, and Geralt didn’t miss the way Kakashi’s voice thinned—like he’d stated a simple fact, not something he should be ashamed of. “Where I’m from,” Kakashi continued after a beat, “that’s just the way it works. You’re a monster everywhere else... or you don’t survive long enough to come back.”

Geralt slowed his pace and then stopped altogether, his boots sinking into the snow with a muffled crunch. Kakashi continued a few steps further before he noticed, pausing and turning back to face him, his expression neutral but watchful. The boy’s stance was relaxed but balanced, his weight evenly distributed between both feet in a way that said he was ready to move in any direction at the slightest threat. 

“What kind of place needs monsters to survive?” Geralt asked, his voice low but pointed, amber eyes fixed on the boy. He wasn’t trying to be cruel—he wanted a glimpse behind that carefully crafted exterior, wanted to understand why Kakashi was the way he was.

Kakashi tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady but blank. His hand brushed briefly against the edge of his cloak, adjusting it against the biting gust of wind. Kakashi considered him for a moment, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth the only sign of reaction. “One where monsters are useful,” he replied simply, as if the answer were self-evident.

Geralt narrowed his eyes, watching Kakashi’s calm, measured tone clash with the deeper truth hiding in his words. “Useful,” Geralt repeated, his brow furrowing. “As a weapon?” The question pulled from his lips and Geralt knew he was right.

This time, Kakashi didn’t answer immediately. His eye flicked toward the horizon, shifting briefly to the snow-covered trees lining the road. His fingers brushed the edge of his mask, a small, fleeting motion, before falling back to his side. Then, with the faintest shrug, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, he said, “It’s what I’m good at. Always have been.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression neutral. There it was again—that blunt certainty that grated against Geralt’s sense of right and wrong. He’d met plenty of people who thought the same way, but not like Kakashi. Not a boy. And not with the same quiet pride and... fear? The realization tugged at Geralt’s thoughts, though he couldn’t entirely pin it down.

“‘Useful’ doesn’t have to mean ‘monster,’” Geralt said, his voice softening. “You don’t have to be a monster anymore. Not here.”

Kakashi’s gaze locked onto his, expression still as stone. He didn’t bristle or argue—he didn’t even look away. But the tension in his body didn’t ease, either. Geralt could see it in his frame, the way his fingers twitched faintly before curling into a loose fist. He wasn’t relaxing. Not in the slightest.

No—Kakashi was scared. Not of Geralt, or of the road ahead, but of the idea itself. The thought of setting down the part of himself that had kept him alive, that had defined him, wasn’t a relief. It was a threat.

Geralt saw it now. The boy was afraid—not of losing his edge, but of what he’d be without it. Geralt had seen men lose themselves in their purpose, and Kakashi wore that same shadow like a second skin. His skill wasn’t just something he was proud of—it was part of him, stitched into his very sense of self. Kakashi didn’t respond to Geralt’s words, and Geralt didn’t press further. The boy’s silence was answer enough.

For a moment, Geralt wondered if the kid would ask more, but Kakashi just turned, letting the conversation fall as they continued down the road.

Jaskier’s voice broke through the moment, his hum rising into actual words as he began to sing under his breath. The cheerful tune, jarring against the somber weight of the conversation, sliced through the heavy air like a blade through fog. Geralt glanced ahead, watching as the bard swung an imaginary blade through the air, his steps exaggerated for comedic effect.

“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Jaskier called, his tone light but laced with curiosity. He turned to walk backward, throwing his arms out with a dramatic flourish. “I don’t suppose that’s the grand finale of your brooding duet? Or do I have to keep waiting?” Jaskier let out a wistful sigh as he let his hands drop to his waist while he continued to all but prance backwards. “Because I could really use some lighter conversation to carry us to the next village.”

The bard followed his interruption with a more pointed, “A bit of cheerful banter wouldn’t kill you two, you know!” Aiming a finger directly at Geralt.

Kakashi, tilted his head slightly, his gaze pausing on Jaskier for a moment longer than usual at the interruption. Geralt on the other hand, rolled his eyes and grunted. “Face forward before you fall.” He scolded, tone dry.

Jaskier smirked but complied, turning back around with an exaggerated twirl. “See, Kakashi, this is what I mean. Always brooding. One day, we’ll get him to loosen up. It’s a long-term project.” He gestured at Geralt with an exaggerated sweep of his hand.

Geralt sighed, shaking his head as Jaskier turned back around with a satisfied grin. Despite himself, Geralt felt a faint smirk tug at the corner of his lips. Jaskier’s antics had a way of breaking through even the heaviest silences, whether they liked it or not.

Kakashi’s eye lingered on Jaskier for a beat, weighing him as if considering the bard’s place in the dynamic he’d found himself in. There was no malice in his gaze, only quiet calculation—a question without an answer.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Kakashi’s expression shifted. His shoulders relaxed, and his steps picked up pace, the mask of levity sliding into place as easily as donning his cloak. He caught up to Jaskier in a few quick strides, leaving Geralt behind without another glance.

The bard greeted him with an exaggerated grin and a playful jab about being too quiet. Kakashi responded, his tone low and wry, though Geralt couldn’t make out the words. Whatever he said drew a loud laugh from Jaskier, the sound bright and warm against the quiet snowfall. They slipped into a back-and-forth that lingered softly in the air.

Geralt lingered where he stood, watching them move ahead. Kakashi wasn’t fooling him, not entirely. The road stretched before them, pale and quiet beneath the falling snow, but Kakashi’s figure stood out starkly against the white. The joyful mask might have been for Jaskier’s benefit—or maybe it was just easier than sitting with his own thoughts. Either way, Geralt had enough to piece together.

The boy wasn’t comfortable with who he was. Not fully. But he wasn’t ready to let that part of himself go, either. Useful wasn’t just a label Kakashi wore; it was the only thing he knew how to be. And that scared him more than anything else. Geralt didn’t like what that said about Kakashi’s past, but he liked even less what it might mean for his future. 

Letting out a quiet sigh, Geralt adjusted the strap on his sword and followed after them. Whatever puzzle Kakashi’s past was made of, he was starting to see the edges of it. It wasn’t a full picture—not yet—but he’d keep prying. He wasn’t the kind of boy to let himself be fully seen, but every step he took said something—each action a piece of the puzzle that Geralt was determined to piece together. Even if the boy never gave him a straight answer, Geralt could still gather the pieces.

And maybe, one day, Kakashi would let him see the whole thing. For now, though, the road stretched on, and the weight of those questions would have to wait. Whatever Kakashi was hiding, he’d uncover it in time.

And when he did, he hoped the boy would still be standing.

The road ahead had begun to change. Geralt could feel it in the way the ground firmed beneath his boots, the dirt-packed paths giving way to something sturdier, more deliberately maintained. It wasn’t much—just a subtle shift in texture—but enough to signal they were nearing civilization, or as close as it got this far north. The air was crisper here, biting but clean, and carried with it the scents of pine and the first whispers of winter. The mountains loomed closer with each passing mile, their jagged peaks cutting stark outlines against the fading afternoon sky. Home was near, though Geralt rarely allowed himself to call it by such terms. 

Ahead, the village emerged from the dense forest like a reluctant host. Nestled in the shadow of the mountains, it was modest at best—a collection of snow-dusted wooden buildings, smoke curling from chimneys, and a handful of villagers going about their evening routines. It wasn’t the wealthiest place, nor the most remarkable, but it had endured, and Geralt appreciated that kind of resilience. The sun began its slow descent behind the jagged peaks of the mountains, casting a golden glow across the snow-dusted rooftops. The air was crisp, biting against Geralt’s skin as he led their group down the winding path toward the entrance. It wasn’t the largest, nor the most prosperous, but it had an air of familiarity. 

The air was quieter here. Not the oppressive silence of an abandoned place, but a steady hum of life subdued by the encroaching cold. Geralt’s gaze swept the settlement as they approached. He noted how the villagers moved with purpose, their motions brisk as they prepared for the harsher months ahead. A man mended the hinge of a barn door, his breath puffing in rhythmic clouds. A woman hauled buckets of water from the well, pausing only to swipe a strand of hair from her face.

Geralt noted the way a few locals glanced at them—some in passing curiosity, others with an almost instinctual respect reserved for Witchers—but none showed fear or mistrust. Most kept to their tasks—mending tools, tending to livestock, and preparing for the winter months. Their group drew few glances, though none lingered long enough to suggest hostility. These were people who knew Witchers—perhaps not intimately, but well enough to neither fear nor revere them. Geralt caught a few nods of acknowledgment, even a raised hand of greeting from an older farmer on the outskirts. The lack of suspicion was a rare relief. Instead, the villagers went about their business, only sparing a glance or two at their early arrival.

Jaskier, ever incapable of silence, hummed softly beside him. His breath fogged with each note, though he seemed oblivious to the chill. He was happy despite the cold and the weariness that came with long travel. His spirits clearly high as they crossed the village’s threshold.

Geralt grunted to himself. It wasn’t unusual to pass through here, especially in the colder months when Witchers made their way toward Kaer Morhen before the snow made the mountain passes treacherous. The villagers expected to see their kind making the journey north, but they were a few weeks early, and that was bound to raise some questions.

Kakashi, on the other hand, seemed to absorb the environment with a quiet curiosity. His eyes darted between the sturdy wooden houses, the cobbled paths, and the muted but warm greetings exchanged by the villagers. The boy had his hood pulled up, his face mostly hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak, but his presence still drew attention. He didn’t speak much as they walked in, but there was a certain relaxation in his posture, less on edge than before. The kid had warmed up considerably since their last stop, his usual quiet demeanor broken by a steady stream of questions—about the road, about the people, about the monsters they’d passed. 

It almost felt as though he were trying to make amends with Jaskier for shocking the bard during their little bandit encounter. It was strange that they hadn’t encountered any wolves or other creatures on their trip so far though. They had seen signs of them but bandits had been their only direct fights during the long travel through the wilderness.

Jaskier, walking alongside Kakashi with a faint hum on his lips, broke into a grin. He cast a sidelong glance at Geralt, his expression bright enough to border on triumphant. “Well, this is a change of pace. No glares, no pitchforks. I’d say we’re practically welcomed here!” He seemed outright excited, and Geralt couldn’t blame him. Places like these that all but ignored their differences from the normal traveler were rare at best. Geralt could admit that such easy acceptance was nice to experience, even if it was usually only once a year.

Geralt grunted, pulling his cloak tighter against the cold. “They’re used to Witchers,” Geralt muttered. “Enough not to care.”

Jaskier, predictably, was in high spirits. “Used to us, are they?” Jaskier said, his voice lifting with mock grandeur. “Well, thank the gods for small mercies.” He declared with a dramatic flourish, nudging closer to Geralt.  “Perhaps this means I won’t have to endure another night of frozen ground and Geralt’s endless sighing.” He glanced behind him to where Kakashi trailed, his small frame wrapped in the dark folds of his cloak. “What do you think, Kakashi? Civilization at last?”

The boy didn’t answer immediately, his gaze darting between the buildings and their occupants. Despite the hood casting a shadow over his face, Geralt didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered with quiet curiosity. Kakashi had grown more comfortable since their last stop, a subtle but noticeable shift in the way he carried himself. He wasn’t as tense now, though the sharpness in his movements—the precision of someone always ready to act—remained.

“It’s different,” Kakashi said at last, his voice quiet but steady.

Jaskier snorted. “That’s one way of putting it. I, for one, am ready to embrace this glorious bastion of hospitality with open arms and a stomach fit to burst.” The bard continued slightly quieter, voice filled with an air of complaint, “Honestly, if I had to sleep under another cold night sky, I may just melt into a puddle of misery.”

Kakashi raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips twitching. “You seemed to manage just fine the past few nights.”

“That’s because I had no choice,” Jaskier replied with a huff. “But now—now, my young friend, I will revel in the simple luxuries of life. A hot bath, a hearty stew, perhaps a bit of wine…” He trailed off with a wistful sigh, already lost in his daydreams.

As they entered the village proper, Geralt noted how Kakashi’s posture relaxed further, his head tilting slightly as he took in the muted bustle of activity. The kid had been full of questions the past few days, his quiet demeanor giving way to a sharp inquisitiveness that Geralt suspected was as much a survival tactic as genuine curiosity. But now, Kakashi seemed content to observe, his expression—what little of it was visible—calm.

 The last few weeks had been uneventful—a minor skirmish with bandits, some wild creatures roaming close to the road—but for the most part, the journey had been quiet. Kakashi had begun relaxing thanks to Jaskier’s charm, opening up in brief moments of curiosity or after a particularly relatable story. He seemed to be deliberately forgetting or ignoring the weight of the conversation he and Geralt had shared after their first bandit encounter. He let Geralt fight from that point on, staying back with Jaskier. Whether that was to keep the bard safe or just stay out of trouble, Geralt wasn’t entirely sure, but he was betting on the latter.

Geralt’s eyes scanned the village as they made their way toward the small inn near the center of town. The building was sturdier than most, its heavy timbers and sloped roof designed to withstand the weight of winter snows. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the muffled sounds of conversation and clinking tankards reached his ears.

As they approached the inn, Geralt caught sight of a few of the older villagers nodding in their direction, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence. They knew what Witchers were here for—what their presence meant. Still, the early arrival would be noted. Geralt was sure word would reach Vesemir and the others soon enough.

Kakashi, walking beside Jaskier, took in the village with a casual glance, his expression unreadable as always. He didn’t seem fazed by the cold or the long weeks of travel, just as he hadn’t been bothered by camping out in the woods or surviving on whatever food they could scrounge. The kid was resilient and unfortunately used to the lifestyle.

Jaskier’s excitement was palpable as they approached, practically bouncing on his heels as he turned to Geralt. “Well, don’t just stand there brooding. Let’s get inside before I freeze to death out here.”

Geralt rolled his eyes but picked up the pace, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground. Kakashi followed suit, walking lightly with his smaller frame. The boy adjusted his cloak, his movements economical and deliberate, and fell into step beside them as they entered the inn.

Jaskier, his voice barely containing excitement, pushed the door open with a flourish. “Gentlemen, welcome to salvation!”

The warmth hit them immediately, a welcome reprieve from the cold. A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow casting dancing shadows across the room. The scent of stew lingered in the air, mingling with the tang of ale and the faint mustiness of old wood. A few patrons glanced up at their arrival, their expressions ranging from mild interest to indifference. It was a far cry from the cold nights they’d spent camping along the road, and Geralt caught the tidal wave of relief on Jaskier’s face as he breathed in deeply. 

The innkeeper, a burly man with a graying beard, glanced up from where he was wiping down the counter. His eyes settled on Geralt, narrowing slightly in recognition. A welcoming smile grew on his face, though his eyes did a double-take at the sight of Kakashi.

“Witcher,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Early this year. Didn’t expect to see you till closer to snow season.”

Geralt grunted in response, giving a slight nod and shrug. “Got business to attend to.”

The innkeeper’s gaze drifted to Kakashi, who had been watching the exchange with interest. “Didn’t know you lot were training young ones again.” He spoke with a slight question and an almost imperceivable level of caution. As the town closest to Kaer Morhin, they had also been the closest to the fall. 

“Something like that,” Geralt muttered, tone flat and leaving it at that. Most people knew better than to pry too deeply into a Witcher’s business. He wasn’t in the mood to elaborate, and thankfully, the innkeeper didn’t press.

The innkeeper nodded as he began wiping down the counter. “Same rate as usual..”

Geralt grunted in acknowledgment. He knew the price—it was fair enough, and more importantly, this was one of the few places that didn’t try to charge Witchers double just for the privilege of staying under their roof.

As Jaskier eagerly negotiated their stay—rooms, meals, and perhaps a bottle of wine if the bard had his way—Geralt led Kakashi to a table near the corner of the room. The boy’s sharp gaze darted around the space, cataloging details with the kind of efficiency that Geralt recognized all too well. Kakashi stayed quiet but keen, his sharp eyes not missing a detail. Once they settled at a table, the kid leaned back slightly, his attention shifting to the inn’s patrons. A few travelers, some locals—nothing out of the ordinary, but his curiosity was palpable.

“You always sit with your back to the wall?” Kakashi asked as he slid into the seat opposite Geralt.

“Habit,” Geralt replied.

Kakashi nodded, mimicking the placement of his chair so he could see both the door and the rest of the inn. Geralt smirked faintly. The kid learned fast.

Jaskier joined them moments later, beaming as the barmaid set down bowls of steaming stew and tankards of ale. “Gentlemen,” he declared, raising his tankard, “to warm beds, hot food, and the relative absence of immediate danger.”

Kakashi snorted—a rare, genuine sound that made Jaskier’s grin grow wider and drew an amused glance from Geralt—grinning at the bard’s theatrics. “Doesn’t take much to keep you happy, huh?”

“No,” Jaskier replied with mock indignation, “just basic human decency. And perhaps a decent bottle of wine.”

The boy’s lips twitched faintly, though he quickly busied himself with his food. Geralt gave Jaskier a sideways glance but said nothing. He was used to the bard’s enthusiasm, and frankly, Kakashi’s reaction was a welcome change. The kid had been loosening up, little by little, over the past few weeks. Even Geralt had to admit it was good to see.

Jaskier, ever the optimist, tore into his food, his chatter filling the space between the clinking of mugs and the occasional burst of laughter from the other patrons.

The inn was warm, the firelight chasing away the chill that had clung to them since midday. Despite the comfort, Geralt's attention strayed more often than not to Kakashi. The kid was sharp and yet there were moments, fleeting but unmistakable, where he let himself relax and acted a little more like the kid he was. Geralt smirked as he watched Kakashi subtly shift gears. The kid had become more inquisitive over the last few weeks, and now he was using his young appearance to his advantage. The boy sat at their table, shoulders relaxed, seemingly engrossed in his meal, but Geralt saw the subtle shifts in his demeanor away from true relaxation and into something slightly different. Relaxed, sure—but only enough to blend in. The kid was observing, calculating. Typical. 

As the barmaid approached with their meals, Kakashi's expression brightened slightly. He caught her eye just as she set the plates down. “What’s the village like this time of year?” His tone was casual, light, but his eyes stayed steady on hers.

The barmaid, a woman in her mid-twenties, smiled and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Quiet enough. We get a few merchants passing through, but once the snow piles up, it’s mostly just us locals.”

“Any trouble lately?” he asked, tilting his head in a way that made him seem younger than his years.

The barmaid shook her head, chuckling. “Nothing too wild. Just some drunks getting loud. It’s been better since word got around that Witchers might be passing through.” She glanced toward Geralt, her smile turning more cautious. “Folk tend to behave when they know one of your kind might show up.”

Kakashi nodded thoughtfully, murmuring a polite thanks as she moved on. Geralt sipped his ale, watching the exchange. The kid had a knack for this—disarming people with innocent questions and a quick smile. Not a bad tactic, and certainly one Geralt had used in his younger days.

Jaskier, oblivious to the subtle maneuvering, leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Ah, the simple joys of civilization! Warm food, good drink, and no cursed beasts breathing down our necks—for once.” He raised his mug in mock celebration. “We’ve been on the road too long, and I, for one, am going to enjoy every second of this reprieve.” He finished with a long swig of his drink, a contented light in his eyes.

Kakashi’s chuckle was quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the tavern. He sniffed his plate subtly, checking for anything unusual before taking a careful bite. The habit hadn’t gone unnoticed by Geralt, who smirked faintly. Always cautious.

Kakashi glanced up mid-meal, his voice soft but clear, cutting through the soft noise of the tavern. “Will there be more Witchers at Kaer Morhen?”

“Not yet,” Geralt said simply, taking a bite of bread. “We’re early. They’ll come closer to winter.”

Kakashi nodded thoughtfully, glancing at Jaskier as the bard launched into yet another praise-filled monologue about the wonders of a soft bed and some story of their adventures.

“Do the mountains get as cold as they say?” Kakashi asked quietly, his gaze drifting toward the window where snow began to gather.

Geralt snorted. “Colder.” It was times like this that he remembered that Kakashi was still a young boy. It’d be his first time in the mountains that were Geralt’s home.

Jaskier leaned forward, ever eager to inject some levity. “Nothing a roaring fire and a bit of song can’t fix, eh, Kakashi?” It would also be Jaskier’s first time there too, wouldn’t it?

“Depends on the song,” Kakashi replied, his lips twitching upward in a small, fleeting smile.

Jaskier laughed, clearly pleased, before excusing himself to regale the barmaid with yet another embellished tale of their adventures. Kakashi, meanwhile, stood quietly and murmured, “I’ll be back,” before slipping toward the bar where the innkeeper was busy pouring drinks.

Geralt’s gaze followed him, narrowing slightly. Kakashi’s posture was loose but deliberate—relaxed enough to put others at ease, yet sharp, alert. The boy leaned against the counter, his head tilted just so as he began speaking with the innkeeper. Geralt couldn’t hear the words, but the easy rhythm of the exchange told him enough. Kakashi was digging for information, his youthful appearance a convenient shield against suspicion.

The Witcher turned his attention back to his plate, though he kept Kakashi within his peripheral vision. He’d let the kid work; no need to hover. Still, it was hard not to feel a flicker of something resembling pride as he watched the boy navigate the room. Kakashi might be young, but he was no fool.

As he ate, Geralt kept an eye on Kakashi’s interactions, noting how naturally the kid slipped into this role…disarming people with a smile and a few well-placed questions, relaxing further the more he learned. 

By the time Kakashi returned, Jaskier was back at the table, launching into a new tirade about the luxury of clean sheets and soft pillows. Geralt grunted, half-listening as he shifted slightly to give Kakashi room to sit. Jaskier was right about one thing—the soft bed would be a welcome change. 

Tomorrow, they’d begin the climb; Kaer Morhen was close now. But for now, they could enjoy the warm welcome.

The ascent up the mountain was always a grueling trek, even for a Witcher. The wind cut through the narrow passes like a knife, carrying with it the bite of winter that hadn’t yet fully arrived but certainly made its presence known. Snow crunched beneath their boots, and the sharp howl of the wind echoed off the jagged cliffs, as if the mountain itself mocked their efforts. Geralt had made the climb to Kaer Morhen more times than he cared to count, but it never seemed to get any easier.

The trek would be made on foot this year though. Geralt hadn’t had a chance to look for a new Roach after the last one fell prey to the stray strike of a forktail a few weeks before he’d found Kakashi. He would prioritize it after this winter ended. For now, it was just the three of them on foot, bundled against the cold as best they could be. Even with their thick cloaks, the chill was sharp, biting through the layers like claws. Geralt trudged ahead, leading the way, his breath fogging in the frigid air. Jaskier, predictably, was complaining under his breath about the cold, his face red from the biting wind.

Kakashi, to Geralt’s surprise, didn’t seem fazed. The kid had his usual cloak pulled tightly around him, his face half-hidden by the fabric, but there was no sign of discomfort. If anything, he looked more relaxed than usual, keeping pace without issue despite the ice and snow that made their footing treacherous.

Behind him, Jaskier’s muttering was nearly drowned out by the wind, his voice punctuated by sharp huffs of breath as he stumbled on the uneven ground before catching himself. “Gods, how do you not freeze solid up here?” he groaned, his nose red and lips pale from the biting cold. “You’d think after all these years you’d have found a warmer place to call home, Geralt.”

Geralt grunted in response, not bothering to look back. “Keeps the riffraff out.”

Jaskier muttered something about "madmen and mountains" but kept moving. His breath came out in sharp bursts, and he hugged his arms around himself, trying in vain to keep the cold at bay. “You’re both insane,” he grumbled, glare bouncing between a very accustomed Geralt and an unresponsive Kakashi.

A gust of wind tore through the pass, carrying with it a spray of fine snow that stung their faces. Jaskier yelped, nearly losing his balance as he stumbled forward. Geralt pulled his cloak tighter, teeth chattering as he trudged forward. He glanced back just in time to see Jaskier, with a dramatic shiver, reach for Kakashi, pulling the kid into a huddle.

"By the gods, Kakashi!” He wheezed, shivering violently as he leaned into the kid, wrapping his cloak around the both of them. “You're like a walking heat source!" Jaskier exclaimed, eyes wide with delight. He practically melted into the boy, his teeth no longer chattering quite so much as he tucked his chin into the boy’s shoulder. “You’re warm. Why are you so warm?” His eyes lit up with a dramatic flourish of realization. 

Kakashi stiffened slightly at the contact, his visible eye narrowing as he glanced up at Jaskier. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind.

But Jaskier was undeterred, his expression lighting up with theatrical excitement. “It’s Witcher magic, isn’t it? Some secret little trick to stay cozy in this frozen wasteland! And you’ve been hoarding it all to yourself?”

Geralt glanced back in time to catch the faintest twitch of annoyance in Kakashi’s expression. Kakashi shot Geralt a look, his eye narrowing just slightly, clearly unimpressed with Jaskier’s theatrics. The kid muttered something under his breath—probably a quiet protest—but Jaskier didn’t seem to care. He huddled closer, practically using Kakashi as a human heating pack.

“I’ve been freezing my ass off for hours, and you’ve been hoarding this little gift all to yourself?” Jaskier demanded, draping his arms around Kakashi with all the drama of a man clinging to life. “You’re a walking hearth! Do you realize how wonderful this is?”

Kakashi sighed, the kind of sigh that only a teenager trying to endure an overly affectionate adult could manage. “I’m not a heating pack,” he muttered, his voice flat as he tried to edge away. His foot shifted on the ice as if he might slip away entirely, but Jaskier held firm, clutching him tighter. 

Jaskier, oblivious to the kid’s growing annoyance, just grinned wider. “Oh, you’re my heat pack now, kid. Don’t even try to deny it,” Jaskier declared, his voice muffled slightly by the fabric of Kakashi’s cloak.

“You’re insufferable,” Kakashi deadpanned, though his voice held no real venom. He tried to edge away, but Jaskier held firm, clutching the boy like his life depended on it.

Kakashi shot Geralt a look—half exasperation, half pleading—but Geralt just smirked, the faint amusement in his expression cutting through the grimness of the climb. Geralt chuckled softly. Watching Kakashi attempt to shake off Jaskier’s grip was like watching a cat tolerate a particularly clingy owner. The bard was relentless, and Kakashi, for all his sharpness and strength, seemed to have met his match in sheer stubborn affection.

"Better get used to it," Geralt said, voice low but teasing. "Jaskier’s not letting go anytime soon."

Kakashi gave another long-suffering sigh. “I noticed.”

The path grew steeper, the wind harsher, and the snow heavier, swirling around them in thick flakes that clung to their cloaks and lashes. Despite the sting of the cold seeping into his bones, Geralt found the climb easier with the strange distraction of Jaskier’s antics. Every time he glanced back at Kakashi, the kid looked as warm as ever, his breath misting lightly in the air while Jaskier all but burrowed into his side. 

Jaskier, using Kakashi as a human shield against the cold, tucked into him whenever the wind picked up. “You’re my new favorite person, Kakashi,” Jaskier said with a contented sigh, his shivering almost entirely stilled. “This is going to make the rest of this trip so much more bearable.”

Kakashi gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m starting to regret letting you find out.”

"Too late for regrets!" Jaskier proclaimed, beaming as though he’d conquered the mountain itself. “Now you’re stuck with me. And my eternal gratitude.” Kakashi twitched at the bard’s final sentence, his lips pulling into the faintest grimace.

Geralt chuckled softly, letting the kid endure the bard’s clinginess. He didn’t bother to ask how Kakashi was managing to keep himself so warm—he had his suspicions, but whatever technique the kid was using wasn’t causing any harm. If it meant Jaskier wouldn’t whine about the cold for the rest of the climb, Geralt wasn’t about to complain.

“Not much longer now,” Geralt said, his voice carrying over the wind. “We’ll reach Kaer Morhen by nightfall.”

Jaskier groaned dramatically, though his mood was far better now that he’d latched onto Kakashi’s warmth. “Can’t wait,” he mumbled. “Just keep me warm, and I’ll survive this cursed mountain.”

Kakashi gave Geralt another look—half exasperation, half amusement—but said nothing, simply shaking his head as they continued the climb.

Geralt smirked. He couldn’t remember the last time the journey to Kaer Morhen had been this entertaining.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the mountain, Geralt felt the familiar ache of a long day’s climb in his muscles. Nightfall settled in just as they crested the final ridge, Kaer Morhen’s towering silhouette finally coming into view. The ancient fortress loomed ahead, its weathered stone walls barely visible through the dark, but the sight of it brought a sense of relief, stirring something deep within him—a sense of homecoming, despite the cold wind biting at his face. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the cold wind bit at their faces, a stark reminder of the mountain’s unforgiving climb. It had been hours since they started the climb, but now they were here.

Geralt felt the familiar weight of exhaustion, though he’d never admit it. The climb wasn’t easy, even for him, and the biting cold didn’t help. His limbs were stiff, the wind relentless as it howled around them. Still, they’d made it. Another winter at Kaer Morhen, though this one would be... different.

Behind him, Jaskier and Kakashi trudged forward, bundled up in his cloak, the bard’s arms still wrapped around the boy like a man clinging to his last source of warmth. Kakashi, having long given up fighting Jaskier’s incessant clinging, walked in resigned silence, his visible eye narrowed with the kind of resignation that only came from losing a battle of sheer persistence. His sharp gaze flicked up to the towering fortress, and Geralt didn’t miss the flicker of curiosity that crossed the kid’s face.

Behind him, Kakashi’s gaze swept over the path and the walls of the fortress with the sharp attention of a predator. Though silent as ever, the boy’s single visible eye moved constantly, taking everything in. Geralt didn’t interrupt his thoughts, he knew that look. The kid wasn’t just seeing the walls, the towers, or the gate—they were being assessed, categorized. Weak points, potential threats, escape routes.

He’d let Kakashi size up the place. It was part of how the boy operated. He wouldn’t be comfortable until he knew every inch of his surroundings, though Geralt doubted he’d find Kaer Morhen as dangerous as whatever places he was used to.

Ahead of them, Geralt kept a steady pace, listening to Jaskier’s exaggerated breaths and occasional mutterings about freezing to death. The path was narrow and steep, but Geralt’s focus remained on the fortress—on the surprise waiting for Vesemir. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, amusement flickering in his chest. Vesemir was about to get quite the shock.

“There it is,” Geralt said, nodding toward the stronghold. “Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier peered up from where he was half-draped over Kakashi. “It’s... bigger than I imagined,” Jaskier murmured, his usual theatrics subdued as he took in the towering walls. For once, he sounded almost reverent. And Geralt would never admit how that warmed his chest. This was the first time that Jaskier had ever seen Geralt’s home, and well… Geralt was ignoring the stray thoughts that bloomed from that.

The bard then squinted at the fortress, seeming to realize just how close it was. “Oh, thank the gods. I was beginning to think we’d frozen solid somewhere back on that last ridge.” He let out a dramatic sigh, the puff of his breath visible in the cold night air. “But with Kakashi here keeping me from turning into an icicle, I guess I shouldn’t complain.”

“You’ve been complaining the whole way up,” Kakashi muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone. His breath came out in steady puffs, far more controlled than Jaskier’s, and he still looked surprisingly unaffected by the cold.

Jaskier gave the boy a squeeze, grinning. “And you, my dear Kakashi, have been a wonderful human heater. I think I may never let go.”

“Please do,” Kakashi deadpanned, though his eyes flicked up toward Geralt in a silent plea for rescue.

Geralt shook his head, amused. “You’ve brought this on yourself, kid. Told you he wouldn’t let go.”

Kakashi sighed again, giving up entirely on trying to pry Jaskier off. They were too close to the end now. “Next time, I’m walking ahead of you.”

“Next time, I’m walking withyou,” Jaskier corrected cheerfully. “You’re stuck with me for life.”

Geralt smirked but didn’t comment. As the trio approached the main gate of Kaer Morhen, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, just as they always did—worn by time but still solid, welcoming them back into the stronghold. The familiar scent of the old stone and iron hit him, a reminder of every winter spent here. It was home, in a way.

“It’s... bigger than I thought,” Jaskier huffed from beside Kakashi, breaking the silence. “I’ve heard tales of this place for years, but seeing it up close...” He trailed off, his gaze flicking up the walls. “It’s so... foreboding.”

“It’s old,” Geralt replied, keeping his tone dry. “Seen better days, but it’s stood through worse winters than this.”

Kakashi’s eye lingered on the fortress gate as they approached, narrowing slightly as if considering how quickly it could be breached or how easily someone could slip in unnoticed. Geralt wondered how long it would take for him to memorize the layout once they were inside. Probably not long, knowing the kid.

Geralt pushed open the gate wider and motioned for the others to follow. The creaking of the heavy wooden doors signaled their arrival. Geralt stepped aside to let Jaskier and Kakashi through. The moment they passed inside, the cold air was replaced by a deep, earthy chill that clung to the stone walls. As they stepped inside the courtyard, Kakashi didn’t miss a beat. His head barely moved, but Geralt could tell he was mapping out the interior in his mind—the placement of doors, the angles of the hallways, the distant flicker of firelight deeper inside. Every corner, every shadow was cataloged, his expression betraying nothing as they moved further into the fortress. The kid was always observing, never missing anything, but he was quiet—more so than usual. Geralt could sense the wheels turning in his mind, but the boy said nothing.

Jaskier, on the other hand, let out a long, contented sigh of relief. “Finally! Shelter from the gods-forsaken cold!” He glanced around the courtyard, his grip on Kakashi loosening slightly as he realized they were safe. Jaskier turned, eyes catching on the imposing structures within the courtyard, looking around like he’d just walked into the heart of a legend, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. “It’s... a bit drearier than I imagined,” he muttered, though his tone was more fascinated than critical. “But... it has character.”

Geralt grunted. “It’s not here to impress. It’s here to last.” Geralt muttered, leading them toward the main doors. His gaze shifted back toward Kakashi, who had shaken Jaskier off the moment they stepped inside, the kid stretching his arms now that he was free. 

“And last it shall,” Jaskier replied, rubbing his hands together for warmth before shooting a sidelong glance at Kakashi. “Though I’m quite grateful for our young friend here keeping me from freezing on the way up.”

Kakashi exhaled through his nose, a long-suffering sigh that barely moved the air. If he were older, he might have smirked, but the kid was too disciplined for that—at least for now. Geralt caught the look in his eye, though—silent exasperation.

Geralt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Told you. You’re stuck with him now.”

“Not if I run ahead,” Kakashi muttered, his voice low but carrying just enough edge to show he wasn’t entirely joking.

Geralt’s lips twitched. The boy was adapting quickly—already navigating Jaskier’s banter with practiced ease. But it wasn’t the bard that interested Geralt right now. It was Vesemir.

“Stay close.”

Kakashi nodded, moving behind him, his footfalls near soundless against the stone. Geralt led the way through the darkened halls, lit only by the flicker of a few torches left burning. The place was as cold as ever, but it was familiar—a kind of comfort Geralt hadn’t realized he’d missed.

But tonight was going to be different. There was a surprise waiting for Vesemir, one Geralt had no idea how his old mentor would take. He wasn’t sure if it was better to ease into it or just lay everything out in typical blunt fashion.

They made their way through the stone halls, their footsteps echoing lightly off the walls as they approached the great hall. The familiar scent of burning wood reached Geralt’s nose, a warmth far more comforting than Kakashi’s unique heat. The fire in the hearth was visible through the door.

They reached the great hall, the fire already roaring in the hearth, its warmth a welcome change from the icy wind outside. Vesemir was there,  seated in his usual chair, the lines of age etched deep into his face but still strong, still the man who had trained him and countless others.

The old Witcher hadn’t aged a day since Geralt had left, at least not in any way that mattered. His lined face held the same sharpness, his eyes as piercing as ever as they turned toward the door. Vesemir’s gaze first landed on Geralt with a familiar recognition, but then slid past him—and stopped. His gaze lingering on Kakashi, curiosity already sparking behind his steady expression.

“Geralt,” Vesemir greeted, his voice gravelly but warm. “Didn’t expect you this early.”

“Ran into something on the way,” Geralt said, his tone nonchalant as he gestured toward Kakashi, who was standing quietly, hands tucked into his cloak. “Brought a... guest.”

Vesemir’s gaze shifted to the boy, studying him in that way only Vesemir could—years of experience measuring every detail. There was a long pause as the old Witcher took in the sight of Kakashi, a boy far too young to be in their company, yet far too sharp-eyed to be ignored.

The silence stretched, Vesemir’s eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the small figure standing beside Geralt. Kakashi’s posture was calm, almost indifferent, but Geralt saw the boy’s eye flicker across the room once, twice—taking in every detail. Geralt wasn’t sure what he expected. Vesemir had seen countless oddities in his lifetime, but Kakashi was different. Younger than any Witcher had been in centuries, but with an air of experience that didn’t fit his age. Vesemir would notice—it was only a matter of time.

Jaskier, oblivious to the tension in the air, collapsed into a chair by the fire with a groan of relief. “Oh, I could kiss this hearth,” he mumbled, stretching his hands out toward the flames. “My fingers have been on the verge of falling off for hours.”

But Vesemir wasn’t looking at Jaskier. Vesemir’s eyes lingered on Kakashi, narrowing as if searching for something. His fingers tapped a steady rhythm against the armrest, the only sign of his unease. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured. “Geralt,” Vesemir hesitated, his voice rough. “Who... is he?”

Geralt almost smiled. The old man’s surprise was a rare thing, and seeing it now stirred a wicked amusement in him. Vesemir was rarely caught off guard, and Geralt found himself savoring the moment.

“Picked him up on the way,” Geralt replied, crossing his arms and letting the sentence hang in the air. He glanced at Kakashi, who was still impassive, not offering any explanation of his own. “Thought he’d be... interesting company.”

Vesemir’s gaze darted between the two of them, clearly trying to puzzle out what Geralt wasn’t saying. The old Witcher’s instincts were sharp as ever, but Geralt could see him struggling with the boy’s presence. There was something there—a familiarity Vesemir couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Interesting,” Vesemir repeated slowly, his voice laced with suspicion. His eyes hadn’t left Kakashi. “How old is he?”

“Not old enough,” Geralt said, his amusement growing. He kept his face neutral, but inside, he was enjoying this far too much. Vesemir would figure it out eventually—he always did—but until then, Geralt was content to let him stew in the mystery.

Vesemir leaned back in his chair, nose flaring slightly, his sharp eyes never leaving Kakashi. “He smells... like a Witcher.”

Geralt’s smirk finally broke through. “Yeah. Thought you’d notice that.”

The room fell into a silence thick with unspoken questions. Kakashi, for his part, stood still, his eye trained on Vesemir with a cool, calculating gaze. He knew he was being assessed, but he didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. If anything, the kid seemed ready for it.

Vesemir, however, was still clearly unsettled, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his chair. “You want to explain how that’s possible?” he asked, his voice carefully measured.

Geralt just shrugged. “I’ll let you figure it out.”

The look Vesemir shot him was sharp enough to cut, but Geralt only grinned wider. It wasn’t often he got to turn the tables on his old mentor, and watching Vesemir wrestle with this new puzzle was far more satisfying than he’d anticipated.

Vesemir’s gaze returned to Kakashi, who remained silent, his posture relaxed yet vigilant. Finally, the old Witcher sighed deeply, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “Alright, Geralt. I’ll bite. What’s the story with this one?”

Geralt allowed himself a quiet laugh. “That, Vesemir, is something we’ll discuss after dinner.” He turned toward the hearth, his smirk fading into a more familiar, neutral expression. “You’ll want to be sitting down for it.”

Vesemir shook his head, clearly not amused, but Geralt could see the curiosity still burning behind his eyes. The night was only just beginning, and there were plenty of surprises yet to come.

Vesemir gave him a pointed look but turned his attention back to Kakashi, the unspoken question still lingering in the air. But for now, Geralt let the silence settle, content to enjoy the rare moment of having Vesemir at a loss for words.

Jaskier, oblivious as ever, plopped himself down at the table, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “Oh, this is going to be good,” he muttered under his breath, clearly amused by the tension in the room.

Geralt glanced at Vesemir, who was still studying Kakashi with that piercing gaze of his, and for the first time in a long while, Geralt found himself enjoying the prospect of letting Vesemir try to untangle the mystery. It wasn’t often the old Witcher was caught off guard, and tonight, that was enough to bring a rare smile to Geralt’s face.

“Welcome home,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as the warmth of the fire began to seep into his bones.