It's a trick, her mind whispers. A trap. None of this makes sense.

Jo and Dean move away, but she is aware of them only out of the corner of her eye; the majority of her attention is on the unknown factor, the man who looks like he shouldn't be able to stand, shouldn't be able to speak her name. She'd think it was an illusion, but Dean was looking at him too. Jo could see him.

(Jo had said a name a moment ago, a name that rolled off the edges of her mind like rain on wax.)

His dagger slides with a scrape across the stone ground. Ciri's suspicion grows, stoked rather than eased, her conviction that there's something worse about to happen rising.

She doesn't wait. Doesn't let herself be lulled into believing there is a peaceful way out of this. Too many experiences otherwise have taught her better.

Without warning, Ciri lunges at him, thrusting her makeshift dagger forward swiftly and precisely, aiming for the throat.