Magic. What we call it. [ Geralt doesn't glance up from what he's doing as he explains, piling a few more rocks together, shifting the boughs so they shield from the snow a bit better. The cold remains blistering, but at least they won't get buried under a white blanket overnight. Provided they're trapped here that long.

He hopes not.

At last, he sits back. Bit cramped. Not the worst. He peers briefly out the crack between their shelter, then back at her. ]

Hard to tell what's real? [ Mm. He gets it. He didn't return the Horizon for weeks afterwards. Their first involuntary entry. It's taken a long time for the uneasiness to fade while he's inside it. ] I find those of us who have too many memories running amok experience the Horizon...differently.