Where the fuck are they? Geralt sniffs the air. Stale. An ivory bone peeks out from under the dirt. Are they in the Horizon? Someplace beyond the Singularity? It is simpler to focus on the problem at hand than the screams that still ring in his ears. It's fine. They're old memories. He's carried them with him for decades; he can carry them for a few decades more.

His brows furrow, concentrating. A small wood horse materializes in his palm. Misshapen, one leg crooked. So they are in the Horizon. Of a sort.

He huffs. What is she on about? Saw what?

"Jo." He doesn't turn towards her, but his hand pauses where he's feeling around a latch on the stone wall, following where it might trigger. "If I wanted you dead, you would be. And I hardly need to lift a finger to invoke your fear and hatred. You do that all on your own."

She can tell herself whatever she wishes to justify it. He's fucking tired of this world putting her in his path.