The note of warmth that Estinien has when speaking of her is noted, tucked away in that space where Geralt keeps everything he observes whether he finds it immediately relevant or not. He isn't working, technically, but it's become second nature by now.

Talk of dragons leaves him quiet. So does talk of champions. Where is the gold dragon these days? Up on the mountain still, he presumes. He hasn't thought back often. Tries not to, at least. Too much happened there. Too much he left behind that day.

"I'm sure," he replies simply. What's it like to believe so firmly? In fate and the hands of those who can turn it. To see something other than the chaos scattered through the world. He wants to say it doesn't matter, any one person's importance. In the end, places or people, they rise and fall all the same.

"At least your dragons have champions. Ours have treasure hunters."