She does not understand this feeling. The way it grips her, lungs so full with it she can barely breathe. Her eyes roam the grounds, catching on the parapets, lingering on each set of steps leading upward, taking in the way the fortress is set so neatly carved into the mountain, as much a part of it as though it had always been here. There is an old, solid weight to it, improbable as that is in its existence within this liminal space; it has the feeling of a building lived-in, died-in, of centuries.

Geralt's touch startles her out of her almost trancelike reverie. Ciri turns to look at him with a jolt, and for a moment, she looks--

Younger, spring-green eyes wide and round, a faint dusting of freckles across her nose. The scar is very nearly gone.

She catches Geralt's hand.

"Thank you. For bringing me here."