The dread builds in the silence, only her pulse in her temples, the fear and anger clawing at the edges of her mind to be let out and given physical form. Another day, she might have been able to contain them. She might have been able to take that slow breath needed to calm down, step back, considering the best course of action. Maybe leave. Maybe talk to Geralt first.

But not right now.

She moves lightning-quick. Gripped by the sudden urgency and paranoia behind needing to know, Ciri explodes forward in a flash of deadly steel and predator precision.

The flat of her dagger presses into Istredd's throat, sharpened edge just beneath his jaw, leveraging him backward into one of his countless bookcases. All traces of the friendly teasing from Nocwich are gone; the confusion from a moment ago is gone. Her brilliant green eyes turn on him now with the same piercing coldness as her blade.

"Who the fuck are you?"