“From the left, Fifteen!” Nohorn roared, running in a semi-circle to approach the witcher from behind.

Fifteen spun. But not quickly enough. He bore a thrust through the stomach, prepared to strike and was struck again in the neck, just below his ear. He took four unsteady steps and collapsed into a fish cart, which rolled away beneath him. Sliding over the slippery cargo, Fifteen fell onto the flagstones, silver with scales.

Civril and Nohorn struck simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a high sweeping cut, Nohorn from a kneeling position, low and flat. The witcher caught both, two metallic clangs merging into one. Civril leapt aside and tripped, catching himself against a stall as Nohorn warded off a blow so powerful it threw him backward to his knees. Leaping up, he parried too slowly, taking a gash in the face parallel to his old scar.

Civril bounced off the stall, jumping over Nohorn as he fell, missed the witcher and jumped away. The thrust was so sharp, so precise, he didn’t feel it; his legs only gave way when he tried to attack again. The sword fell from his hand, the tendons severed above the elbow. Civril fell to his knees and shook his head, trying and failing to rise. His head dropped, and among the shattered stalls and market wares, the scattered fish and cabbages, his body stilled in the center of a growing red puddle.

Renfri entered the marketplace.

She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet’s nest, grew silent. Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain mail, barely covering her hips.

“You’ve made your choice,” she said slowly. “Are you sure it’s the right one?”

“This won’t be another Tridam,” Geralt said with an effort.

“It wouldn’t have been. Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages and he wouldn’t leave his tower. And he won’t let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I’ll deceive anyone if I have to; why should you be special?”

“Get out of here, Renfri.”

She laughed. “No, Geralt.” She drew her sword, quickly and nimbly.

“Renfri.”

“No. You made a choice. Now it’s my turn.” With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign.

Renfri laughed hoarsely. “It doesn’t affect me. Only the sword will.”

“Renfri,” he repeated. “Go. If we cross blades, I—I won’t be able—”

“I know,” she said. “But I, I can’t do anything else. I just can’t. We are what we are, you and I.”