The sharp point of the knife punctures armor, skin and flesh. It sinks, and with it, so does she, into the darkness and terror and confusion as the world around her shudders and cracks. As the image begins to resolve, and the illusion evaporates, like fog clearing from a glass.

The scream echoes all around, slams into the high stone walls and the others standing apart, a deafening, all-encompassing shriek. It's not a noise a person should be able to make. It's an energy as much as a sound, a lighting strike more than thunder. The ground splits. The walls shudder. Debris rains from somewhere far above.

Suddenly, Ciri releases the knife; it disappears the moment her fingers leave its hilt, leaving her hands covered in Geralt's blood.