Geralt stood still, the ragged sound of his breathing drowned beneath the crackle of residual lightning dancing along his arms. In his left hand, held as if it were a sacred trophy, was the heart of Isobel. It pulsed faintly, its final beats slowing in his grip, and a glimmer of triumph curved the old warrior's lips. He had done it. He had won—or so he thought.
The strategy had been clever. Using his mastery over lightning, he had split himself into two forms—one real, one a crackling clone born of pure current. To a predator like Isobel, whose senses relied on scent, the illusion was perfect. She could not smell the difference between flesh and lightning, and in that blind moment, Geralt had slipped behind her, arm lancing forward to tear the life from her chest. It had been a clean, calculated strike, the kind that only worked once—the kind that depended entirely on surprise.
"Are you going to eat it or what?"
