Chapter 26: THE WITCHER'S CONTRACT — Part 3
Pain woke me.
Dull, persistent, centered on my back but radiating outward with every breath. I was lying face-down on something soft, bandages wrapped tight around my torso. Somewhere nearby, someone was grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle.
"You're awake."
A woman's voice. Not young, but not ancient. I turned my head carefully and saw a gray-haired healer at a worktable, her hands stained green from plants.
"How long?"
"Since yesterday morning. Your friend carried you here, paid for three days of care in advance." She set down the mortar and approached my bed. "The wounds were serious but clean. No poison in a Striga's claws, thank the gods. You'll have scars, but you'll live."
"My lute?"
"In the corner. Intact, somehow."
I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding. The lute had been through everything with me—three years of roads, battles, performances. Losing it would have felt like losing a limb.
"Your friend," the healer continued. "The Witcher. He's been checking on you. Should be back soon—he was collecting payment from the king."
Collecting payment. Not abandoning me.
I waited until she returned to her work, then carefully, quietly, began to hum.
The healing melody came easier now than it had in those desperate moments during the fight. I kept it soft, below the threshold of normal hearing, and let the power seep into my wounds. I couldn't heal myself as effectively as I could others—the temple texts had explained something about the difficulty of channeling power inward—but even partial acceleration would help.
The healer noticed nothing. But over the next hour, my pain diminished, my breathing eased, and the wounds began knitting faster than they should.
Sister Agata would be proud. Or horrified. Possibly both.
The door opened.
Geralt entered, moving with the careful efficiency of someone whose arm had recently been reset. His eyes swept the room—checking for threats, I'd learned—before settling on me.
"You're awake."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
He pulled a chair closer to my bed and sat. The silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid.
"I told you to stay back," he said finally.
"You did."
"I had reasons."
"I know." I met his eyes. "I couldn't watch you die when I could help."
"You almost died instead."
"But I didn't. And neither did you." I tried to shift position and immediately regretted it. "The Terror Ballad—it bought you time. Seconds, maybe, but enough."
Geralt's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. "Your song. It affected the Striga."
"Yes."
"How?"
This was the moment I'd been dreading and anticipating since we first met. The conversation that would determine whether our partnership continued or ended.
"I have a gift," I said carefully. "Songs that do more than entertain. I can influence emotions—calm a room, inspire fear, encourage healing. It's not magic exactly, not in the way mages use it. Something else."
"Something else." His voice was flat. "You've been hiding this."
"Would you have let me come to Posada if I'd told you?"
Silence. Answer enough.
"The tavern," he said. "The first night we met. The room calmed when you played."
"Yes."
"And since then? Our travels?"
"Sparingly. I didn't want you to know until—" I stopped. Until what? Until I'd earned his trust? Until he needed my help? Until I was too useful to discard?
"Until now," Geralt finished. "When you couldn't hide it anymore."
"That's fair."
He leaned back in his chair, processing. I watched his face for any sign of what he was thinking—anger, betrayal, the cold calculation of deciding I was more trouble than I was worth. Instead, I saw something I hadn't expected.
Curiosity.
"What else can you do?"
I explained Bardic Resonance in terms that felt safe. Emotional influence within a radius. Minor healing acceleration. Fear projection that could affect even supernatural creatures, though with difficulty. I kept the details vague, implied that these were the limits of my abilities.
I didn't mention Evasion Instinct. One secret revealed per crisis seemed sufficient.
Geralt asked sharp questions. How long had I been able to do this? What were the limitations? Did it require my lute, or could I use my voice alone? I answered as honestly as I could without revealing too much.
Finally, he nodded.
"Useful," he said. "But you follow orders next time. If I tell you to stay back, you stay back unless the alternative is my certain death. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And no more surprises. If you have abilities I should know about, I need to know about them before we're in combat."
The guilt of hiding Evasion Instinct twisted in my stomach, but I pushed it down. "Agreed."
He stood, the conversation apparently concluded. At the door, he paused.
"Get some rest. We leave in three days."
"We?"
"You didn't think I'd abandon you in Temeria?" Something that might have been amusement crossed his face. "Someone has to make sure you don't get killed doing something stupid again."
He left before I could respond.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened. Geralt hadn't left. Hadn't raged. Had listened, questioned, and adapted. The partnership wasn't over—it was evolving.
The healer brought soup. I ate slowly, every movement pulling at my wounds, but I finished every bite. Geralt's trust was something I'd earned through blood and honesty.
I wouldn't waste it.
When the healer wasn't looking, I hummed another healing melody and began composing "The Tale of the Striga" in my head.
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