[he should say a lot, but instead he says nothing. wanda narrows her eyes, still condemned to the responsible thought of not poking into the minds of others—because it's an invasion of their privacy, because it's not moral—but damn if she isn't frustrated at how tightly locked geralt's mind is.

although they reign in silence for a moment, he picks up on the conversation as if she had never said a thing.

this is just how he is, she figures.

chaos, though. last she spoke with geralt, she was younger, different, grieving. now, she's a few years older, her magic much stronger, dark magic coursing through her veins, not just grieving—but angry, too. what she's learned about chaos magic belongs to her world alone; it's dark, it corrupts, it's her world's first demon's nightmare turned into power.]

—the improbable, impossible spark moving between life and death; neither purely constructive nor destructive. It's the possibility of both, neither, and everything in between. The fraying edge between reality and unreality.

[wanda looks away for a moment, then down at her hand, placing the ring onto one of her fingers, flexing her hand for a moment.]

I dreamt of my fate in my world not too long ago. [a prophecy come reality, to her dismay. she turns her eyes back up to him.] I understand my world's Chaos Magic now, and I doubt it is similar to yours anymore.

[in any case,]

I am taking a break from magic for now.