( Urianger hesitates again, ever reluctant to unburden himself ohis troubles lest he need to use them for some manner of secrecy — but then this is Geralt, isn't it? A man who isn't in the same faction as him, let alone privy to the various guilts he's been carrying with him from Hydaelyn. Perhaps a man with a fresh perspective is precisely what he needs. )

Aye.

( A nod. )

The ritual, it— ( Urianger draws in a breath, then backtracks a little. ) Long have I worked in the shadows to assist my companions — to make necessary decisions that would be too terrible for them to bear — and for that I have needed to cultivate a great deal of self-control.

( There's a pause, then: )

Of mental fortitude.

( Urianger's posture alters slightly, straightening and sharpening, like that of a man falling back on subtle habits that manifest physically. This is the version of himself he wants to be — that he needs to be, for the safety of his friends. )

Yet in the pit, I was powerless to stop the effect of the ritual from taking hold. My mind was not my own — something I cannot allow to ever happen again.