In a rare instance, Geralt is genuinely reeling. He had, in a sense, been prepared for Voleth Meir. He is not prepared for whatever the fuck is happening now—no weapon, no gear, just him and Ciri frightened atop him. But he can tell she's thrown when he doesn't attack, doesn't try to grab her, and he wonders if that's what it'll take.

When her knife plunges downward, he makes no move to stop her. Is it a gamble? Perhaps, but if not the Horizon then where? The blade pierces between his ribs, blood flowing hot, soaking his shirt. He can see it—a shift in her expression. Then the walls crack, the earth splintering.

He grabs her despite the shaking ground, ignores the ringing in his ears. Her hands are slick, red, but he takes them in his anyway. There's an insistence to his grip now, firm but gentle. Part of him fears if he lets her go, she may never return.

"Cirilla. You know who you are. You know who I am, too."