Geralt never hesitates in a fight. He doesn't now, exactly, but he can tell when he's facing someone who's seen their share of combat and when he's up against someone who can barely wield their own weapon. This feels like the latter. Though he knows better than to drop his sword, he makes the split second decision not to slice the woman in two.

Instead, he slams her into the ground, twisting her arm until there's a sharp hollow snap. The crossbow hits the dirt. It crunches beneath his boot, wood frame fracturing as he strides towards Nadine. He can see the the flame in her hand, small but visible. They're in Cadens, at least, where slinging magic is infrequent; the two men do not back off, but they do pause a second or three as though waiting to see if the spell grow bigger. Uncertainty crosses their faces.

It gives him enough time to step in front of Nadine. One glances at their comrade on the ground, then at the sword in his hand.

This, here, it's normally where he would tell them to leave. Let them retreat and lick their wounds. No real reason for complicating matters when he can tell they're about to turn tail. But there's a strange pull in the air, so subtle he hardly notices. It makes him glance over his shoulder at Nadine—as if he's waiting for what she may tell him to do.