The portal opened like a wound in the air — violet light folding in on itself, wind pulling toward a place that smelled of salt and storm.
Geralt stepped through first.
He always did.
Ciri followed.
Then the others.
The cold hit like a living thing.
Not mountain cold.
Sea cold.
Sharp and wet and endless.
Dragonborn Ciri staggered one step forward and stopped breathing.
Skellige spread beneath the cliff like a painting the world had been too proud to hide.
Black rocks cut into white surf.
Longships swaying in distant harbors.
Cloud shadows racing across green slopes.
The ocean — not a lake, not a river — an edge of the world.
Her hand rose to her mouth without her noticing.
"It's… too big," she whispered.
Witcher Ciri laughed softly beside her. "First time?"
Ciri didn't answer.
Because she wasn't seeing Skellige.
She was seeing herself — years ago — standing in front of a screen, not moving, just turning the camera slowly because she couldn't believe a place like this existed.
Now the wind touched her face for real.
Now the sound of the waves was not music — it was thunder.
Geralt watched her instead of the horizon.
That small, silent smile.
He understood.
Ulfric stepped out of the fading portal last.
The sea wind passed through him without moving his cloak.
"This place remembers wars older than Skyrim," he said quietly. "Good. The gate will be here."
Yennefer did not waste time.
"The cave is inland," she said. "The convergence scar is stable — for now."
The path down from the cliffs wound through grass that bent like it was bowing to something unseen.
Villages watched them pass.
Skellige eyes.
Hard.
Measuring.
But none of it reached Ciri.
She walked beside Geralt.
Close.
Not touching.
Not needing to.
Every few steps she looked back at the sea.
As if memorizing it.
The forest swallowed the sky.
Ancient trees.
Roots like the ribs of buried giants.
The air changed.
Less wind.
More pressure.
The closer they came, the quieter it became — until even the birds refused to cross the circle of stones surrounding the cave.
Yennefer stopped.
Her voice dropped.
"It's already open."
Inside, the world smelled wrong.
Not rot.
Not death.
Something older.
Stone that had seen other skies.
The tunnel descended into darkness lit by a glow that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Ciri knew what it was before she saw it.
Her chest tightened.
Her lungs forgot how to work.
Oblivion.
The gate stood at the cavern's center — not swirling like the ones she had closed in another life — but vast and still, like a mouth waiting to speak.
Black metal.
Red light.
Runes that did not belong to this universe or the next.
Geralt stopped walking.
"I hate portals," he said.
Not complaining.
Resigned.
Because he would walk through it anyway.
For her.
The heat rolled off it in waves.
Not fire heat.
Dominion.
Command.
A presence that said: you are small here.
Ulfric stepped forward until the light passed through his spectral form.
"This is the path," he said. "From here — only you."
Ciri's head turned sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"I go no further," he replied.
It was not dramatic.
It was not sad.
It was a soldier stating where the line ended.
"Sovngarde waits," he added.
The word struck harder than any farewell.
She moved before she thought.
Wrapped her arms around him.
For a moment —
just a moment —
her hands met resistance.
As if Akatosh allowed the contact.
Ulfric's voice, low against her hair:
"You brought us peace," he said.
"Now bring it to yourself."
He stepped back.
Already fading.
The gate roared softly.
Time was thinning.
Yennefer's voice cut through the moment.
"You don't have long."
Witcher Ciri stood on one side.
Geralt on the other hand.
Both waiting.
Not asking.
Her family.
Not hers.
Both.
Dragonborn Ciri turned once more toward the cave entrance.
Toward the strip of daylight where the sea could still be seen between the trees.
The most beautiful place she had ever seen.
The place she had arrived as someone broken.
The place she would leave as someone choosing.
Geralt moved first.
He did not hug her like a hero.
He pulled her into him like a father who knew this was not the last time — because if he believed that, he would not survive it.
His hand on the back of her head.
The same way he held the other Ciri.
No difference.
No comparison.
Just love.
"You don't need to be special to save the world," he murmured.
"You just need to come back alive."
The wolf-school silver sword pressed into her palm.
Weight.
Reality.
Choice.
Witcher Ciri hugged her next.
Hard.
Laughing through tears.
"Try not to die in dramatic ways," she said. "That's my thing."
Yennefer did not hug her.
She took her face in her hands and looked directly into her eyes.
"You are not alone in any world," she said.
"Remember that when you forget how to breathe."
Then she stepped back.
Because if she didn't, she wouldn't let her go.
The gate pulsed.
Red.
Hungry.
Calling.
Ciri turned toward it.
Toward Thedas.
Toward war.
Toward Serana.
Toward herself.
And behind her —
the sea roared like a memory that would never fade.
She stepped forward.
Into the light.