The sun had broken through the clouds, the sunlight glistened on the calming sea. The roof of the lighthouse at the end of the headland was sparkling. It was built of white and red brick, a relic of elven times. A relic that had endured many storms like that. And would endure many more, it would seem.

The schooner Pandora Parvi, having overcome the river mouth, which was now calm although still densely encumbered with flotsam, sailed out to anchor under full canvas as though taking part in a regatta. The crowd cheered.

Geralt helped Mozaïk stand up. Not many of her clothes remained on her, either. Dandelion gave her his cloak to cover herself up. And cleared his throat meaningfully.

Lytta Neyd was standing in front of them. With her medical bag on her shoulder.

“I came back,” she said, looking at the Witcher.

“No, you didn’t,” he retorted. “You left.”

She looked at him. With cold, strange eyes. And soon after fixed her gaze on something very distant, located very far over the Witcher’s right shoulder.

“So, you want to play it like that,” she stated coolly. “And leave a memory like that. Well, it’s your will, your choice. Although you might have chosen a little less lofty style. Farewell then. I’m going to offer help to the wounded and the needy. You clearly don’t need my help. Or me. Mozaïk!”

Mozaïk shook her head. And linked her arm through Geralt’s. Coral snorted.

“It’s like that, is it? That’s what you want? Like that? Well, it’s your will. Your choice. Farewell.”

She turned and walked away.

* * *

Febus Ravenga appeared in the crowd that had begun to gather on the terrace. He must have taken part in the rescue, because his wet clothes were hanging on him in shreds. An attentive factotum approached and handed him his hat. Or rather what remained of it.

“What now?” called a voice in the crowd. “What now, councillor?”

“What now? What shall we do?”

Ravenga looked at them. For a long time. Then straightened up, wrung out his hat and put it on.

“Bury the dead,” he said. “Take care of the living. And start rebuilding.”

* * *

The bell in the belfry tolled. As though it wanted to assert that it had survived. That although much had changed, certain things were unchanging.

“Let’s go,” said Geralt, pulling wet seaweed from his collar. “Dandelion? Where’s my sword?”

Dandelion choked, pointing at an empty place at the foot of a wall.

“A moment ago… They were here a moment ago! Your sword and your jacket. They’ve been stolen! The fucking bastards! They’ve been stolen! Hey, you there! There was a sword here! Give it back! Come on! Oh, you whoresons! Damn you!”