It is, in fact, an extraordinarily sensible question. Geralt squints into the distance. Tries to gauge if he can.

"Stay there."

There is no right direction, but there's no reason for her to follow at his heel if he's going to end up wedged between these fucking walls. The walls are closing in, but they aren't moving. Yet. He's time to reach the end, see if he can even slip through. So that's what he does. Just moves, ignoring the blood dripping down his hand. The end is so tapered, he can't even tell what lies beyond it. Maybe nothing until they step through.

He fits. Barely. Part of him half-expects another spike to nail him through the eye, but he forces himself through with a dozen more rips in his skin. He curses. Yeah. All right. She should make it intact. Provided no further surprises await them.

He flexes his fingers. "Clear."