The sun was higher now, but Kaelen barely noticed. He walked down the hill from the estate, leaving a trail of blackened blood and boot prints behind him. His armor was soaked, his blade dull with gore, his eyes—still lit faintly by the last flickers of Cat—unblinking.
He didn't look back.
The noble's estate burned behind him. A small fire. Just enough to make sure no one went digging through cursed ruins any time soon.
The village sat quiet at the base of the ridge, as if it hadn't heard a thing.
No screams. No bells. No questions.
That was always the way of it. Villagers didn't ask what a Witcher had to kill. Only whether it was dead.
He passed the baker, who nodded nervously and quickly shut his stall. Passed two guards who avoided his gaze. Blood still dripped from his vambraces.
He didn't care.
Kaelen reached the inn, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Warmth. Low fire. Smell of old ale and roasting meat.
Everything normal.
He stood in the doorway for a second, covered in filth and blood, like a ghost that had crawled out of a battlefield and wandered into someone else's life.
The innkeeper looked up, pale and wide-eyed.
Kaelen tossed a bloodstained pouch onto the counter with a heavy clink.
"Room," he said.
The man swallowed and nodded quickly, handing over the key without a word.
Kaelen climbed the stairs slowly, every muscle aching now that the adrenaline was wearing off. His hand gripped the railing harder than he needed to, just to keep upright.
Inside his room—small, dark, with nothing but a cot and a wash basin—he dropped his sword on the floor with a dull thunk, peeled off his armor piece by piece, and sat on the edge of the bed.
He stared at the wall for a long time.
Then he exhaled.
A low, tired breath.
It was done.
For now.
But in the back of his mind, something still itched.
That noble hadn't acted alone.
And whatever he had been working for—wasn't done yet.
Kaelen had just stripped down to his pants, the last of his blood-slick armor lying in a heap by the door. Scars lined his chest and arms—some fresh, most old—and his muscles twitched with the aftershocks of battle and potion burn. He stood at the basin, splashing cold water over his face, when—
Knock knock.
His eyes snapped up.
Not the innkeeper. Not now. Not after what he just walked through.
He crossed the room silently, still barefoot, hand brushing the edge of the washstand where his sword leaned—just in case.
He cracked the door open.
And stopped.
She stood there in the flickering hall light—striking.
Tall, with a wicked curve to her hips and long, flowing red hair that caught the lamplight like fire. Emerald eyes, sharp and knowing. Lips curled into a smile that was half invitation, half challenge.
Her dress was too fine for a village girl. Too tight, too clean. Slit high on the thigh, laced low across the chest. It clung to her like sin and silk.
"Well," she said, her voice velvet-smooth. "You're harder to kill than I expected."
Kaelen narrowed his eyes, leaning against the doorframe, utterly unbothered by his near-naked state.
"Not many people show up at my door after I tear through twenty possessed knights," he said. "Even fewer smile while doing it."
She smiled wider.
"Then you'll find I'm not like most people."
Kaelen's expression didn't change, but his hand stayed close to the sword.
"Who sent you?"
She tilted her head. "You think someone sent me?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't knock to sell bread."
She laughed—low and warm, but there was something else underneath it. Something sharp.
"No," she said, stepping just a little closer. "I came to warn you."
That got his attention.
He straightened.
"Warn me about what?"
Her smile faded—just a little. Her eyes gleamed.
"That noble you killed?" she whispered. "He wasn't the only one playing with old things. And now that you've cut the leash…"
She leaned in, lips nearly brushing his ear.
"…the thing he served is looking for a new hound."
Kaelen didn't move.
Not at first.
His Witcher senses were screaming—her scent was too perfect, her skin too smooth, her heartbeat calm and steady even after dropping that kind of warning.
But her eyes…
They burned with something dangerous. Something alive.
She stepped closer.
No fear. No hesitation.
Kaelen opened his mouth to speak—and she kissed him.
Hard.
No request. No pause. Just full lips crashing into his, fierce and electric. Her hand fisted in his hair, the other on his chest, fingers splaying over his scarred skin like she'd claimed it.
And then—
Shove.
Kaelen staggered back, half-surprised, half-wired, as she pushed him into the room with a strength that didn't quite match her frame. The door swung shut behind her with a sharp click.
She leaned back against it, breathing slightly heavier now, lips parted.
Her hands went to the straps of her dress.
"You can keep pretending you're in control," she said, letting the first strap fall off her shoulder, "or you can admit you've been watching me since the second you opened the door."
Kaelen's eyes were sharp, but something under them flickered—heat, tension, challenge.
He didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
She stepped forward again, the other strap falling loose, dress beginning to slide down, inch by slow inch. Her voice dropped, sultry but edged with something just a little dangerous.
"I told you I came to warn you. But who says I can't enjoy the view while I do?"
The kiss turned wild—his hands on her hips, her breath hot against his skin. She pushed him down onto the bed, straddling him with smooth, practiced ease, red hair falling like a curtain around his face.
Their mouths met again—teeth and heat and adrenaline.
But then—
Pain.
A sharp sting at his lip. He tasted blood.
Kaelen's golden eyes snapped open just as she leaned down, lips brushing his neck—not like a lover. Like a predator.
She opened her mouth wider, unnaturally wide.
And he saw them.
Fangs.
Too long. Too curved. Too wrong.
Doppler? Bruxa? No time to decide.
Kaelen's hand shot to the dagger tucked beneath his mattress, moving on instinct. In one clean motion he slammed it up and into her side, twisting as he drove the blade deep under her ribs.
She screamed—high-pitched, shrieking, not human at all.
Her form shuddered—glamour slipping like melting wax. Skin rippling, jaw distending, eyes going from emerald green to coal-black pits. Blood spilled down her thigh, thick and black and hissing as it hit the floor.
Kaelen shoved her off him, rolling to his feet in a flash, blade in one hand, blood dripping down his lip.
"You almost had me," he growled.
She crouched on the floor, snarling, one hand gripping her side where the dagger still stuck.
Then she smiled, even through the pain.
"You're faster than they said."
Kaelen's jaw tightened.
"Who's 'they'?"
She laughed—wet and feral. "You'll find out soon enough, Witcher. But next time… it won't be me knocking."
She turned her head and whispered something in a language he didn't recognize.
And in a blink—she vanished.
Not out the door.
Just… gone. Smoke, shadow, nothing left but the hiss of fading magic and the stink of blood on his bed.
Kaelen stood still, sword raised, breathing hard.
Then he wiped the blood from his mouth and muttered:
"Should've burned her dress when I had the chance."