[ Shoving her mug away onto the table, Ciri crosses her arms, curling up more in her chair, shoulders tight. Jaskier is warm. He smells like flour and yeast and a little bit like ale now. Homey. Safe.

His words are kind. Honestly, Ciri wishes they weren't. She wishes he didn't give Alina so much credit. Or her.

She spits the words out like a bitter pit, hard and sharp and wrapped around just enough poison to feel unpleasant in her mouth. ]

She does not know me. And I could still stop her. Merchant wagons hardly travel at swift speeds.

She didn't think of that. She didn't think of anything. Let her go.

I cannot afford distractions now.