Too long is right. Geralt has no desire to revisit the past however many hours, soundly ignores Dean's question in favour of moving on. They get out of this place first. Then they can talk.

If there's anything to talk about.

Or. That's the plan. The world gives out in a rush instead. One second he's stepping on solid ground, the next it's empty, and Ciri's simply gone from his grasp.

He tumbles through the air, no time to twist for a better landing before he slams heavily into the ground. He manages to roll with it, winding up on his hands and knees. Blood stains the suddenly green grass, dripping from his side where Ciri's knife pierced him, from the claws raked across his chest. Fuck.

Where in the hell—