Just get to Greyleaf, Roger thought. Get out of this hell-hole, and get to the old man. Maybe check on Osric. Did Osric encounter this other creature? Is Osric dead?

Roger shook the thoughts from his head and focused on getting out of the cave. This time, there was no thought given to the sound that he made as he raced to the exit. He leapt over tables, kicked over chairs, and knocked down stacks of books that were blocking his direct line to the exit of the circular chamber.

It only took five movements for Roger to get the proper feint to draw out the attack he needed. With a swift counter strike, Roger was able to slash the Alp across her neck. The skin around her throat opened up thanks to the silver inlaid into the blade, and a dark stream of crimson poured down her emaciated torso. It wasn’t until he began removing her head that he noticed the attack she’d inflicted upon him in her brief moments of invisibility. A gash that ran the line of his face, nearly removing his eye, was newly traced in his skin. Without panic, he wrapped a headband around the deepest part near the top of his scalp to keep the blood from pooling around his eye.

“Wait, wait, just wait a moment!” Greyleaf pleaded. The light from inside the home was blocked by a figure now standing in the doorway. Roger’s focus locked onto the armored shoulders that sat on either side of a chainmail neck coif. The figure dropped low into what Roger recognized as a fighting stance, but it was the odd movement of the left hand that made Roger’s hair bristle. He was barely able to get his sword in front of his face before a crossbow bolt slammed into the tapered steel and ricocheted off to the side.

“You’re scheming something. I don’t care,” Roger furrowed his brow and pretended to be interested in something outside the canopy.

Gorm remained motionless with a hateful grin plastered on his face.

Roger rolled the glass in his palm, “I feel as if I want to wipe my hands clean of all this. It’s getting too complicated for my comfort.”

Gorm looked back at his men, then gave a sarcastic grin and leaned forward towards Roger.

“You surprise me, witcher,” Gorm admitted through his large mustache.

“Where you from?” the man with the heavy Skelligean accent interrogated and stepped closer with each sentence. “That accent. Obviously from the continent. Not the south.”

“The Kestrels,” Roger replied with his eyes still looking at the middle of the cremator and watching for any quick movements.

“No one is from the Kestrels.”

“Some are.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Not about this.”

“To answer your other question, I am what will protect you should this ‘thing’ reappear. As long as your coin is real.”

“Of course the coin is real!” Aelfred fired back in a whispered shout. He closed the distance and looked around as if hoping to avoid being overheard. “This has to be stopped, master Witcher -”

“Roger,” the witcher injected. “You can just call me Roger.”