The moment Richard and I stepped into the training courtyard, the air shifted.
The clash of practice blades, the grunts of exertion, the hum of low-level combat magic—it all stopped
One by one, heads turned, and all eyes fell on us. The silence was so heavy I could feel it pressing against my skin.
I scanned the room. These students were warriors-in-training. Their bodies were honed for battle.
It didn't take me long to notice the stiff shoulders, cold glares, and whispers. Not a single one of them looked happy to see Richard.
A tall, muscular figure detached himself from the sparring line. He walked straight toward us, broad shoulders squared, every step like a fighter's grace.
He stopped in front of us, his arms crossed over a chest that seemed carved from stone.
"My name is Geralt," he said, his deep voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "The Shadow Fighter Society is for honourable men. So tell me, Richard… what are you doing here?"
