Kaer Morhen carries a foreboding air that suggests all who set foot on its grounds is an outsider. Even Jaskier seldom visits, and Yennefer has entered once, maybe twice. The nature of the fortress' isolated walls and insular occupants. Sticky brown puddles and crackling lightning don't make it any more welcoming.

After a moment, Geralt rises. He sets the wilted rose aside. It'll reappear where it will later, he expects. These things usually do.

"Seems so," he replies simply. His gaze roams over Sam for a moment. Dean had mentioned his brother returning; Geralt is genuinely glad for his friend, but he and Sam have never been on the steadiest footing. It isn't uneasiness, exactly. A lack of familiarity more than anything—and maybe a sense of indifference on Geralt's part that makes it clear the camaraderie he shares with Sam's brother is an exception, not the rule.

Which means he doesn't bother with questions of how Sam is doing in Solvunn or if Sam has found his own Horizon similarly upturned.

"You came to speak to me?" Or had Sam wandered through those broken gates without realizing who the space belonged to?