Cold.
Not the cold of Skyhold stone.
Not the cold of Molag Bal.
This was damp earth, soft, breathing — mud beneath her cheek, the scent of wet leaves and smoke.
Ciri opened her eyes to a sky she did not recognize.
No Breach.
No mountains she knew.
No war.
Only the low crackle of a campfire and the distant sound of wind moving through trees that felt older than any forest she had walked in.
For a long time she did not move.
Because nothing hurt.
No chains.
No silence in her throat.
No hands in her mind.
Her voice — when she tested it — came out as a broken whisper.
"…hello?"
The fire answered with a pop of sap.
Then:
A sound behind her.
Leather shifting.
Steel softly touching steel.
Instinct moved her before thought — she rolled, reaching for a sword that was not there, body still remembering how to survive.
A figure stood at the edge of the firelight.
A woman.
White hair.
Two swords on her back.
Yellow eyes that watched the way wolves watch — not with hostility, but with awareness.
Not afraid.
Not surprised.
Measuring.
Ciri froze.
Because it was like looking into a mirror that had grown up without her.
The same face.
Older in the way of experience, not years.
Whole in a way she had never been.
The stranger tilted her head, studying her with open curiosity.
"You're not from here," she said — voice calm, almost gentle.
"Your clothes alone tell me that."
She stepped closer and crouched beside her, the firelight catching the scar across her cheek.
"You're shaking. You need to get warm."
Ciri didn't move.
Her heart was pounding in a way it had not since Helgen.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Something she did not have a word for.
The stranger extended a hand.
"Come on," she said. "There's a camp not far from here. Safe. For now."
Ciri stared at the hand.
At the sword hilt visible over her shoulder.
At the medallion at her throat.
Wolf.
Her breath caught.
"You…" Her voice failed again.
The stranger gave a small, almost amused smile.
"Yeah. I know. Strange place to wake up."
Then, as if it were the most normal introduction in the world:
"My name is Cirilla."
Silence.
The forest held its breath.
The fire cracked.
And something inside the Dragonborn — something that had survived empires, gods, and death itself —
broke open.
Because for the first time in her life
she was looking at the version of herself
who had been loved correctly.
She did not take the offered hand.
Not yet.
Instead she whispered, like a child asking permission to believe in something:
"…that's my name."
The other Ciri's expression changed.
Not a shock.
Recognition.
The kind that does not need explanation.
"Well," she said softly, "then we should probably get you somewhere safe."
And this time
the Dragonborn let herself be helped to her feet.
Final image of the chapter
As they walk away from the dying fire:
Dragonborn Ciri stumbles once — exhausted, overwhelmed — and the other Ciri catches her automatically, steady and familiar.
A gesture done a thousand times before
for someone else.
Never for her.