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The tavern stinks of wet wool and old lard. The space is cramped, floorboards sticky with splatters of spilled ale and wet mud, the air humming with drunken laughter and slurred gossip. It’s a dive—one Lambert would gladly trade for the simple comfort of a campfire in the forest—but autumn is going fast. The sky’s been iron for days now, promising snow before the week is out, and he doesn’t feel like freezing his balls off on top of nursing his bruises. 

He’ll have frostbite enough once he starts heading north. He’s cutting it close this year, he knows. If he doesn’t get a move on soon, the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen will have turned into a deathtrap, and he’ll get stuck in the valley. Really, he should have left days ago. 

One more job before the winter, that had been the idea. A small ghoul nest, just outside this town, to top up his purse. Except the nest hadn’t been small. The cave had been stacked with corpses, the place crawling with dozens of alghouls and a nasty rotfiend that exploded when he killed it, getting entrails in his mouth. And hair. And eyes. Took him two days to take out the lot instead of one, and another half to get the stench off him in the icy river. Just his luck that the local tavern would turn out to be only marginally less rank.

Naturally, the tavern keeper makes him pay twice what a stay in this rat-hole is worth, eyeing Lambert suspiciously as he counts out a third of what he just received from the ealdorman for cleaning out the cave, then serves him what he claims is mutton stew. Lambert almost spits it out at the first taste. It’s thin and underseasoned, half the meat barely more than cartilage, a far cry from Vesemir’s hotpot. But it’s better than nothing. Most importantly, it’ll fill his stomach, which is still sour from the slurry of healing potions he forced down in the cave.

Lambert is halfway through his bowl when his ears pick out a conversation from the rampant noise: three locals several tables over, faces red from drink, gossiping loud and loose. “Swear it’s true,” says one, slapping the table. “Keepin’ him like a dog on a leash, they was. Was doin’ tricks and everything!”

“Never thought I’d see a witcher trained like that,” another chimes in. “Reckon they ain’t so fearsome when you get the jump on ‘em.”

Lambert stills, senses sharpening.

“Serves that monster right, if you ask me,” adds a third, to the vocal assent of his companions. “Leash ‘em all, I say!”

Slowly, Lambert sets down his spoon. The sudden heat in his gut has nothing to do with the stew.

“Wonder where they’re headin’ for the winter?”

“East, I reckon. Bartek saw ‘em set up camp in the pine stretch near the game trails.”

“Maybe they have their pet witcher doin’ their huntin’, sniffin’ the floor on all fours to pick up a scent.” Laughter, loud and nasty. 

Lambert gets up, fingers reaching for the dagger at his belt. Two steps, and he’s at their table. “What the fuck,” he says, “are you bastards flapping your gums about?”

The men swivel their heads, eyes turning wide as they take him in. Lambert can taste the beginnings of fear in the air, hears their heartbeats accelerate, yet one tries to play it cool and smirks. “Ain’t your concern, stranger.”

Lambert draws his dagger and sets it on the table, point-down in the wood. “Tell me everything,” he demands, “or I start cutting off fingers.”

The smirk falls off the man’s face. “Got no part in it, all right?” he stammers, raising both hands. “Just tellin’ the story, is all.”

Lambert’s voice is steel, fingers flexing around the hilt of his knife. “A story about a witcher leashed like a dog.”

The peasant swallows. There’s sweat forming on his brow, his eyes darting to the dagger. “Didn’t do nothing,” he insists, voice thinning. 

Lambert plucks the dagger free, taps it once against the man’s chest. “The witcher,” he says, “what did he look like?”

The tavern keeper’s voice cuts through before the man can reply. “That’s enough of that.” Lambert turns, finding the man clutching a meat cleaver. The tavern has fallen silent, patrons turning their heads.

“Just having a chat,” Lambert says, retrieving the knife.

The tavern keeper squares his shoulders. He’s big for a human, which seems to make him believe he can take on a witcher. “You want to brawl, do it elsewhere,” he says, and points at the door. “We don’t serve troublemakers here. Get out.”

Lambert glares at him. “I’ve paid you for the night.”

“Get out!” the man repeats more sharply, and lifts his cleaver.

There’s no chance in hell Lambert would lose to this pug-faced fucker. If he put his mind to it, he could make the guy piss himself from fear without so much as touching a hair on him.

But more pressing matters have come up. A witcher, leashed like a dog. “Fine,” he says, sheathing his dagger, and leaves, ignoring the stares of the other patrons.

Outside, the sun is setting fast, a frosty gale whistling through the alley and biting at his sore limbs. Lambert purses his lips and turns right. His pack is still with his horse, stabled next to the tavern. “Sorry, princess,” he tells the mare, saddling her up. “Going out again.”

The horse huffs, but is used to serving a witcher and his erratic schedule, heading out into the descending darkness without hesitation. Lambert urges her east, toward the pine trees in the distance, and the story he just heard.

He’s half-convinced it’s all bullshit. For all he knows, the witcher the men claimed they saw was some poor halfwit bastard cursed with yellow eyes, or a doppler shoved into the role with a knife to its throat. There’s a chance it’s true, though, however small; a chance that it’s Eskel, or Geralt, in the thrall of some power-drunk mage, forced to do their bidding. 

Lambert’s got to make sure.

About three miles down the road, he picks up a scent: magic, and the dark kind, too; the sort that makes his skin crawl and his medaillon quiver. As soon as he reaches the treeline, Lambert ties his horse to a pine, then continues on foot, following the trail. 

Night has settled in for good now, the woods black, not that Lambert’s eyes need more than the faint light of the clouded moon to tread onwards. Eventually, he makes out a campfire in the distance. Lambert slows, focusing until he can make out voices. He doesn’t like what he hears.

“Make him do it again.”

“Oh yes!”

“Ha! Look at him go!”

The taunts and heckling continue as Lambert creeps closer. He can smell the fire in the air—thick smoke, flames coaxed from damp, mossy wood—but it’s nothing next to the stench of the magic. The closer he gets, the worse it becomes: tendrils of power snaking across his skin, making hairs rise all over. 

Every instinct tells him to turn around and run. Witchers, however, were made to walk towards danger.

Another voice reaches his ears, this one sharper, alert. “Stop.”

The heckling wanes. “What is it?” one asks.

“Look at him,” says the first voice. “He’s picked up a scent.”

Lambert halts. He’s perhaps twenty steps away from the fire, hidden in the underbrush. 

“Another fiend?”

“I donʼt think so.” A pause. Then the voice turns low and guttural, foreign syllables echoing through the forest. Magic. 

Heat prickles across Lambert’s skin, making his muscles twitch. 

“Over there.” Footsteps in Lambert’s direction. “No. Let the pet deal with it.”

Lambert’s got to move. Drawing his sword, he veers sideways, out of the underbrush and towards a boulder nearby that will serve as a vantage point. He needs to see what he’s dealing with. The stench of magic is everywhere, muddling his senses, making it hard to gauge how many there are. The mage, at least three more men—and their ‘pet’, whoever that is.

One-handed, Lambert climbs the boulder, sore limbs protesting, the last job still deep in his bones. As soon as he’s on top, he focuses on the fire below. Sharpening his gaze, he makes out men between the trees.

The mage is easy to identify, ankle-length robes and a wooden staff. He looks young, but that’s not saying much when it comes to sorcerers. Just as Lambert thought, there are three more men: common thugs from the looks of them, leather vests and cheap blades. No witcher, though, or anyone who could be mistaken for one. Frowning, Lambert peers around, searching, sniffing, listening for a fifth man—only to be slammed from behind.

The impact is brutal. Lambert grunts as he’s knocked off his feet and sent sprawling off the edge of the boulder, his sword flying from his grip. He hits the forest floor hard, something in his side giving with a sickening crack. Pain flashes white-hot, but he shakes it off. The alghouls did much worse. 

Gritting his teeth, Lambert rolls, just in time to see a shape drop from above and crash down onto him. A weight slams into his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs and redoubling the pain. Fingers scrabble at his neck—claws, more like, nails sharp as knives. A low, inhuman growl rattles through the air. Lambert kicks out, his left knee catching the attacker square in the gut, then casts Aard. The man flies backward, thudding against a tree with a sound like meat hitting wood. Panting, Lambert scrambles to his feet, eyes scanning the shadows. There. In the flickering half-light, the figure stirs, unfolding from the base of the tree. 

Yellow eyes flash like a predator’s. It really is a witcher. Not Geralt, not Eskel—thank fuck—but definitely one of their kind. This one looks feral, though. Hair long and matted, eyes wild, lips pulled back in a beastly snarl. His fingers twitch at his sides, curved like talons. Around his neck, thick iron glints, pulsing with runes. A collar.

“Shit,” Lambert hisses.

He lunges for the bushes, for his sword. His fingers close around the hilt just in time to turn as the feral witcher charges again, leaping with both feet off the ground like a damned mountain cat. Lambert braces—just a little too late—and the two of them collide with bone-jarring force, flying backwards until Lambert’s back hits the boulder.

Clawed hands wrap around his neck, squeezing. Stars explode behind his eyes, but he succeeds in driving his sword upward. The blade slices up his attacker’s arm, deep enough to tear muscle. Blood splashes across Lambert’s chest. The feral witcher shrieks, recoiling. 

Lambert pushes away from the stone, gasping for air. The other is on his knees now, panting and holding his arm, but the respite is short-lived. Two beats, a snarl, then he’s on the move again, pouncing on Lambert. 

This time, Lambert is prepared, twisting his sword and driving it low into the witcher’s ribs. The man gasps and gurgles, eyes growing wide. Lambert knows immediately he didn’t hit anything vital—any witcher worth his salt will walk off a wound like that with time, rest, and a few potions. Still, it’s enough to bring him down. The witcher slumps sideways, still gasping like a landed fish, and collapses, blood seeping into the forest floor.

Lambert yanks his sword free with a grunt, then turns toward the fire, locking eyes with the thugs.

“Fuck!” one of them curses, and they scatter, crashing into the trees like the cowards they are.

The mage stays. He looks rattled, but not exactly scared. His jaw sets, the staff in his hand glowing dimly as he mutters something under his breath, too fast for Lambert to dodge. 

The spell hits him like a sledgehammer. Lambert is thrown back again, slamming into the dirt, the pain in his chest flaring anew. For a mage powerful enough to capture a witcher, though, the attack was weak. Recovering quickly, Lambert springs to his feet, and sprints forward with a low growl.

Another spell comes, this one sloppier. The air sings as it cuts past Lambert’s shoulder, hot enough to blister had it hit the target. Lambert closes the distance and swings. His blade crashes into the mage’s staff, knocking it clean from his grip. Turns out, the mage is defenseless without it. Eyes wide, he stumbles backwards. Perhaps he really is as young and inexperienced as he looks.

In the matter of a moment, Lambert’s sword is at his throat. “Who the fuck are you?”

The mage doesn’t reply. His eyes flicker sideways, toward the campfire—toward the staff.

Lambert presses the edge of his blade in harder, drawing a thin line of blood. “I said,” he snaps, “who the fuck are you?”

The mage relents. “Drenik,” he says, voice tight. “Drenik of Etollan.”

“Etollan?” Lambert snorts. “That some backwater tower that spits out hedge wizards too weak to cast without a conductor?”

Drenik bares his teeth. “I’m not weak.”

Lambert slides the blade across the mage’s throat, enough to make him hiss and tremble. “The collar,” he demands. “Where’d you get it?”

Drenik doesn’t reply until Lambert draws more blood. “A ruin,” he gasps. “An old temple. Dug it out of the dirt, cleaned it up.”

Lambert’s eyes narrow. “What exactly does it do?”

Before Drenik can answer, Lambert hears the crunch of movement behind him—just a second too late. The feral witcher slams into him from behind, claws flashing. Nails rake across his face, sharp as razors, inches away from blinding him. Lambert swears, stumbling, forced to release Drenik and his sword to catch his attacker’s wrists and push him off. They tumble together into the dirt, grappling, snarling, until Lambert slams an elbow into the other man’s face, followed with a punch that cracks his own knuckles and makes the other witcher go slack.

Drenik makes a break for it. Lambert sees him sprint toward the fire, reaching for the staff.

“Fuck no you don’t!” Lambert hauls himself up and dashes after him. He gets there a heartbeat before Drenik’s fingers close around the staff.

Lambert kicks the mage square in the chest. Drenik crashes to the ground, wheezing. Grabbing for a tree branch, he pulls himself up, coughing, then bolts, disappearing into the trees and vanishing into the dark.

“Not weak, huh?” Lambert scoffs, considering chasing him. But he really doesn’t feel like prowling the woods to hunt these fuckers down. His ribs are screaming in protest with every breath. One’s definitely cracked, not to mention the two alghoul bites that have opened up again, or his face oozing from the claw marks.

Reaching for his belt, he finds a half-bottle of Swallow, gulping it down, then turns towards the staff lying by the fire. Limping over, he picks it up and breaks it clean across his knee. The core cracks with a snap like lightning, his medaillon humming as magic washes over him. Lambert tosses the pieces into the flames, then turns to the feral witcher. 

The man lies motionless in the dirt, crumpled where he fell, blood still dripping from his side and arm. He’s definitely out, lying face-down in the dirt. Lambert makes his way over, kicks at him two times to make absolutely sure, then rolls him over to get a better look at him. 

The metal around his neck has gone quiet, the runes dark. The stench of foul magic still clings to it, but seems to be fading slowly. A control device, Lambert thinks, and a nasty one, too, if it’s enough to tame a witcher. Lambert crouches, runs his hands along the iron, searching for a latch, a buckle—nothing. Just a thick metal ring, with an eyelet at the front. For a leash, Lambert realises, with a twist in his gut.

Grimacing, he looks the witcher over. His clothes are worn and dirty: linen underclothes and scraps of leather, no proper protection. No signs of gear, no weapons, either, all stripped from him a while ago, from the looks of him. Lambert doesn’t recognise his face, doesn’t think he’s met him before. He would remember a face like that, he thinks, even with the patchy beard. He’s got fine features, full lips. Pretty for a man, a witcher especially. After a moment of hesitation, Lambert reaches beneath the filthy tunic, fingers brushing metal, tugs the medaillon free—and drops it when he sees the symbol. 

“Fucking hell!” 

Lambert glares down at the unconscious man, tempted to kick him again, in the face preferably. Of all the witchers to waste his time on, it had to be a damned Cat! He gave up his room at the tavern for this murdering piece of shit. Risked his neck. Broke a fucking rib!

Stomach boiling, Lambert’s first instinct is to walk away. Let the gods decide whether the bastard makes it. But there’s more to this than old grudges. That collar is devious, and Lambert needs to hear about it, if only to avoid the same faith. 

They had made the Cat their ‘pet’. Kept him like a dog, ironically, collared and leashed. Made him do their bidding. There’s raw skin around the collar, old bruises along the Cat’s arms. Scars, some old, but plenty fresh. Layers and layers of filth. The fucking claws. 

Lambert exhales through his nose. Then he crouches, grabs the unconscious man under the arms, and drags him toward the campfire. The flames have since grown, crackling with heat as they devour the mage’s staff. Lambert lays the Cat down, close enough to feel the warmth, then straightens and limps off into the trees to retrieve his horse and saddlebags, picking up his sword along the way.

The camp is unchanged when he returns, but that’s not surprising. Drenik and his thugs won’t be coming back here, he’s sure of that, and the Cat is well and truly out, all oozing blood and shallow breathing.

Lambert patches up his own wounds first, binds his cracked rib and takes a couple more potions, then starts going through the stuff left behind in the camp. He finds the leash, scowls, and tosses it into the fire. Finds some potions he knows better than to try and dumps them out, keeping the vials. There are some rations—salted meat and hardtack—half of which he devours, but he doesn’t find the Cat’s armour, or anything else that might have once belonged to him. The medaillon, along with his dirty rags, is all he’s got left.

Grimacing, Lambert picks through his own potions again, then approaches the witcher. It takes some effort, but he manages to get Swallow and Kiss into him, which should help with his wounds. All done, Lambert collapses by the fire.

It’s grown icy in the forest, the moon high in the clouded sky. Lambert’s hurting and he’s tired, the fight having sapped the last of his strength. He needs rest. Needs to get moving in the morning, too, and quickly. The air smells like snow. 

Settling in by the fire, Lambert closes his eyes, slowing his heartbeat and slipping into meditation. Sleep isn’t an option with the Cat nearby, as much as he craves it now, but this will help him heal at least, regenerate some strength.

Calm washes over him, and his mind sinks into trance. 

When he stirs again, tiny snowflakes are floating from the sky, and the Cat is awake.

Lambert starts, surging upwards, instinctively reaching for the sword at his back.

The Cat doesn’t move. Only sits by the dying fire, huddled in on himself, watching. Half his face is obscured, matted hair fanning across it like a curtain. His stare is blank.

Slowly, Lambert lowers the sword, narrows his eyes at him. Then he says, “Could have made yourself useful and fed the fire.”

The Cat’s eyes flick to the flames. His face remains expressionless as he dips his head, then he pushes to his feet. He moves stiffly—his wounds, Lambert reckons, will have just about closed—but doesn’t let on about the pain otherwise, sucking it up like a proper witcher. His feet are near-silent against the forest floor as he moves towards the underbrush.

Lambert, still clutching his sword, watches him pick up some twigs. He doesn’t know what he expected. The spell that made the Cat feral has waned, the collar quiescent, but he isn’t speaking, nor showing any outward response to the fact that Drenik and his thugs are gone, and Lambert still there. He looks eerie, circling the camp blank-faced and silent, bending every few steps to pick up a twig or branch, eventually returning to the fire. He crouches, poking the embers with the longest of his twigs, then feeding them one by one into the flames until they crackle higher. When he’s done he looks at Lambert. No words, no expression.

Lambert’s tired of his act already. “What’s your name?”

No response.

Lambert scowls, anger bubbling up his throat. “In case you didn’t notice, I saved your worthless assassin hide!” he snaps, pointing with his sword. “Show some fucking gratitude!”

The Cat looks at him. Slowly, he inclines his head. Then his hands meet the ground. 

“What the fuck?” Lambert says.

The witcher crawls. Crawls, like an animal, like a wild beast—a pet, Lambert’s memory supplies, unhelpfully—crawls past the fire and toward Lambert, crawling and crawling until he’s settled on his knees at Lambert’s feet. There, he reaches out, reaching for Lambert’s—

“What the fuck?” Lambert repeats, loudly, and slaps the Cat’s hand from his fly.

The witcher folds his hands in his lap and looks up at him, expressionless.

“Fucking hell,” Lambert spits, because there’s nothing to do but curse. His stomach’s started rolling, heat pooling in his cheeks. He didn’t mean—why the fuck would the Cat think— “What are you playing at?” he demands. 

The Cat is silent, staring at him, face blank.

And Lambert—Lambert’s had enough. He’s fucking done here. Never should have got himself involved in the first place. 

Huffing, he turns away, leaving the Cat on his knees as he sheathes his sword and stomps over to his horse. His face is still hot, acid burning in his throat as he packs up his things and saddles up. 

A glance at the iron sky tells him more snow is to come, thicker flakes than the fluff currently floating past the treetops. When he looks back at the Cat, he’s still on his knees, staring at Lambert. It’s fucking unsettling, and Lambert wants no part in it.

“I’m leaving,” he says, then turns the horse around. 

He’s done what he could, he tells himself, as the mare makes her way through the woods. The spell is broken. The mage is gone. The collar’s still there, but that’s not Lambert’s fucking problem. It’s up to the Cat now, to survive or not. If he picks through what the thugs left behind, he should have plenty to trade for a weapon, which is all a witcher needs to earn himself some coin.

And so Lambert rides.

Sooner than expected, the snow thickens around him, fat flakes that cling to his leathers and blur the treeline as he reaches the road. By the time he passes the town he came from—empty now, shuttered tight against the cold—it’s become a proper snowfall, the road already coated in a pristine white layer. 

Lambert rides on. 

At sunset, he’s almost to the Kaedwen border. The sky is dark, the wind picking up. 

It’s the horse that forces a halt. The poor thing is blowing steam with every breath, legs trembling, ears flicking at the ice working its way into her mane. Lambert clicks his tongue, leading her off the road and into the treeline. The branches offer a meagre shield from the weather, but it’s enough.

“Igni,” Lambert mutters, fingers flicking, and a burst of heat clears the ground. He takes care of the horse, then sets up camp quick—blanket, fire, saddle for a pillow—and settles in against a tree trunk. As he chews on more hardtack, he listens for trouble, sniffing the air. But there’s nothing here. Just the snow, a flock of birds, and the crackle of flame. 

Lambert finishes his dinner, a dry ache creeping into his eyes. This time, he gives in, and sleeps.

The horse wakes him. A whinny, sharp and nervous. 

Lambert’s hand goes to the dagger under his blanket before his eyes are open, and he’s halfway to his feet when he sees what set the mare off: a shape by the trees. A man, standing still and silent. It’s the Cat.

Lambert’s blood promptly starts boiling again. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters, exchanging the dagger for his sword. “Were you following me?” he demands, stepping forward.

The witcher doesn’t respond. He was following, though, obviously, and Lambert didn’t even hear him. Sneaky fucking Cats! 

“I’m not in the business of fucking charity,” Lambert tells him. “You think I’m going to feed you? Get you through the winter? If you need something, fucking work for it!”

The Cat stares, expression blank. Then he moves. Not away, but down—down to his knees in the snow, dropping like someone turned a lever. He starts to crawl.

Lambert steps back abruptly. “No!” he snaps. “Stop that!”

The Cat does. Mid-crawl, hands sinking into the slush. He doesn’t get up. Just stays there, on his hands and knees, snow clinging to his ratty sleeves. His hair is wet, his skin white from the cold. He’s shivering violently, but his face remains blank, staring up at Lambert like a dumb beast; a pet waiting for orders—from his master.

Lambert’s skin starts itching, acid burning at the back of his tongue. “Shit,” he mutters, rubs a hand over his face, then puts aside the sword. “Shit,” he repeats, with more feeling, and steps forward until he’s looming over the Cat. Slowly, he lifts his hand, lets the sign flow through him. Axii. “Tell me your name,” he says.

The Cat doesn’t reply. There’s no resistance, as one would expect from a witcher, but no haze of magic over his eyes, either, no reaction at all. Just… nothing. 

“What happened to you? Tell me,” Lambert tries again, casting another Axii. 

Still nothing. The Cat doesn’t even blink, let alone speak; as if he doesn’t know how to, as if his mind is well and truly empty.

Lambert drops his hand, brow furrowing. His gaze drops to the collar around the Cat’s neck. It’s not glowing, no more pulsing runes. But it’s still there, heavy and wrong, and now that Lambert’s actually paying attention, it’s still stinking faintly of twisted, foul magic. Clearly, whatever enchantment it carried, it’s not completely gone. Shifted, perhaps, to something more subtle. 

His frown deepening, Lambert steps closer. Reaches out again, fingers brushing metal as he traces the collar. Still no seam. No clasp. No way to remove it—not with the tools he’s got, anyway. 

All the while, the Cat kneels, and watches him blankly.

Pursing his lips, Lambert steps back again, thinking over the conundrum he’s found himself in. Clearly, the Cat’s in no state to be left alone: needs someone to take care of him, as long as the collar is on. But Lambert isn’t the caretaking type. He’s not a good man; never claimed to be. 

He could walk away again. Order the witcher to stay, leave him here kneeling in the snow until he freezes solid. One less Cat to worry about, and good riddance.

Lambert’s eyes linger on the collar, the raw, pink skin underneath. “Ah, fuck.” He spits into the snow, grits his teeth, then barks, “Get up.” The Cat moves stiffly, joints cracking as he stands. “Come. To the fire.” 

Lambert turns. Crouches, throws some branches on the flames, then shrugs off his cloak and tosses it at the Cat’s feet. His bare feet, Lambert sees now, his toes turned white and blue. Poor fucker doesn’t even have any shoes on, and walked the whole day through the snow. “Put that on,” Lambert orders.

The Cat does as he’s told, wrapping himself in the cloak with a blank look.

“Lie down and sleep,” Lambert tells him next.

The Cat sinks down at the fire and lies down. Three seconds, and he’s out cold.

Lambert settles back down below the tree, pulling the blanket over his chest, eyes locked on the Cat. The flames are caressing his face. There’s something undeniably feline about him beneath the grime, and for all the twisted magic that shackles him, right now, he looks almost peaceful.

There’s nothing peaceful about the metal around his throat, though, and the sight of it makes Lambert’s guts twist again. He can’t imagine being reduced to that—a pet, a mindless slave. Just the idea makes Lambert want to retch, and he vows to get the collar off, soon as possible, and destroy it. Under different circumstances, he would seek out a sorceress. A proper one, someone with the skill to dismantle a device like that. But it’s snowing harder now, thick flakes drowning the world, and all he wants is to get home for the winter. There’s no time for another stop if he wants to make it to Kaer Morhen.

Like it or not, he has to take the Cat with him. He wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t do charity, but what other choice does he have, besides letting the Cat die? 

Bringing him home is a terrible idea, obviously. The history between their schools is bloody and bitter, a list of betrayals on top of fundamental differences in moral code. But then, the Cat is hardly a threat in his state. Lambert could probably order him to jump off a cliff if he wanted to.

So yes, fuck it. He’s bringing the Cat along. The others at Kaer Morhen will just have to deal. 

Lambert doesn’t go back to sleep. He stays awake, meditating until dawnʼs light brushes the snowy trees. When he opens his eyes, the Cat is watching again, silent, waiting for orders. 

Lambert pulls out a handful of dried meat and tosses it near him. While the Cat eats, Lambert starts packing. Once ready, he saddles the horse and tells the Cat to move. At first, he manages to keep pace, but the snow grows heavier, his bare feet struggling in the cold, slowing them down. Lambert sighs and gets off the horse, lifting the Cat up instead.

They travel north, following the road into Kaedwen. Night falls before they reach the valley below the Blue Mountains, the chill biting at Lambert, who seriously regrets giving away his fur cloak. The horse is done, too. No way it can carry on up the steep pass.

At a small farmstead on the edge of the valley, Lambert exchanges a few coins for shelter in the stables. The farmer woman eyes them without surprise, used to seeing their kind, living so close to the fort, even mentions that two others came through recently—Geralt and Eskel, most likely. Noticing the Cat’s bare toes and Lambert’s drenched leathers, she disappears inside the main house and returns with a battered pair of boots and another cloak for Lambert, both her late husband’s. Lambert accepts with a quiet thanks, his chest aching a little. 

It’s a rare good in this world, kindness, he ponders, watching the Cat curled up in the straw. His eyes are fluttering in his sleep, lashes brushing the top of his cheeks.

With a sigh, Lambert settles down next to him, and sleeps, too.

Morning brings breakfast from the woman, and a handful of rations for the road. 

They set out into the fresh snow, climbing toward Kaer Morhen under a clear sky and a pale winter sun, the Blue Mountains rising high. They don’t ride the horse, leading it behind them, packed with Lambert’s supplies. The trail is steep and winding, half-buried beneath fresh powder and old ice. Trees grow sparse the higher they climb, wind cutting clean through the gaps in the ridgeline. The peaks loom like sleeping giants, jagged white pinnacles glinting gold where the sunlight strikes them, only for clouds and shadow to close in again around noon, more snow blowing in. 

Lambert’s boots crunch against the drifts, the horse’s breath coming in clouds. Beside him, the Cat moves in perpetual silence, doesn’t even grunt when he stumbles on a sharp bit of rock half-buried under frost.

Hours pass like that. Light fades. They keep climbing, the horse huffing and panting in the cold. The last stretch is the worst: steeper, slipperier, the wind sharper now that they’re above the treeline. Lambert pulls the cloak tighter, feels his fingers start to lose sensation even inside his gloves. The Cat keeps up, but Lambert can see the toll it’s taking on him: the way he falters now and again, the drag in his steps, the laboured breathing.

He still hasn’t made a sound. Just follows, silent like a ghost.

By the time the gates of Kaer Morhen rise out of the white, it’s dawn again. The horse is barely moving, head down, steam pouring from her nose. Lambert thumps his fist against the gate. Thumps it harder when nobody comes, and hollers.

Finally, there’s the sound of bolts sliding free. Geralt opens the door. He’s got a sword in his hand, but his death glare lifts when he sees Lambert. “You reek of magic,” he grunts, then looks past him towards the Cat. His brows rise. “Hm.”

“I know,” Lambert returns, too tired and soaked to explain, clapping a hand on Geralt’s shoulder before plodding past him.

The cold bites less inside the courtyard. Lambert leads the horse to the stables while Geralt locks the gate. They brush her down together, give her oats. The Cat stands just inside the entry arch like a statue, snow dusting his hair and shoulders.

Inside, the keep is warm, the fire in the great hall burning steady. Eskel is there, lounging with a mug in hand. Vesemir stands over the long table, flipping through parchment. Both look up as they enter. 

“Lambert!” Eskel calls out with a grin, only to still, nose wrinkling when he catches sight of the Cat.

Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “Lambert,” he echoes, in the tone young witchers learned quickly to dread. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lambert replies. “It’s a long story.” Unceremoniously, he grabs the Cat by the arm, dragging him towards the fire and pushes him down. 

The Cat doesn’t react, just sinks down on the stool, face empty. The flames flicker, casting light across his frosted skin, the collar glinting at his throat.

“Who is that?” Eskel sniffs the air. Frowns. “What is that?”

“Big fucking mess,” Lambert says, and drops down on the bench besides Eskel, unceremoniously plucks the drink from his hand and empties it in two greedy gulps. 

“Lambert,” Vesemir says again, even sharper. 

Lambert sighs and explains. Tells the whole fucking story while the others listen, with Geralt leaning against the wall, and Eskel pouring himself another drink.

Vesemir watches the Cat the entire time, eyes narrowed. “That collar,” he says, when Lambert has finished, “show me.”

Lambert gestures. “See for yourself.”

The Cat obediently lifts his chin when Vesemir approaches, enough to give the old man a look at the metal. Vesemir doesn’t touch it, but squints at the runes, muttering to himself.

“I’ve seen something like this before,” he says at last, straightening. “Old alchemical binding script, from the time around the First Landing. Nothing good.” Then he’s gone, stalking toward the hallway that holds the library with a hand raised to rub his beard.

Lambert watches him go before redirecting his gaze at Eskel. “Make yourself useful for once, you lazy prick, and get us some food.”

Eskel punches his shoulder hard before he stands to ladle hotpot from the hearth kettle into two bowls. Lambert takes one and hands off the other to the Cat in front of the fire. He doesn’t touch the spoon until Lambert tells him to. 

Lambert watches him over the rim of his own bowl and tries not to think about the very real chance they might not get the collar off this winter. Of doing this for months—telling the Cat what to do, and being met with that horrid, blank stare. It’s almost enough to make him lose his appetite. 

He can only hope Vesemir finds a way. 

A heavy thud shakes the table some time in the evening. Lambert startles, sloshing ale on his sleeve. Vesemir stands at the head, a thick, ancient tome open in his hands. 

“Found what I was looking for.”

It takes Lambert a second to register what he’s talking about. Geralt, Eskel and he have been sitting around for hours, swapping stories and drinking. The fire crackles low, casting a warm sheen across the stone, and for a while it had felt like a normal winter at Kaer Morhen.

Lambert blinks, glances towards the hearth. The Cat’s still there, just as Lambert left him, sitting on the stool, clutching an empty bowl. Lambert forgot that he was there, and his stomach twists a little at the thought.

Vesemir clears his throat, drawing Lambert’s attention. “I knew I recognised those runes. They’re old. Post-Landing binding script, like I said, tied into metals with alchemical solder. Rare craft, and a nasty one at that.” He gestures to the book, pointing to a crude sketch of a collar that’s disturbingly familiar. “Whoever forged this thing had dark knowledge and bad intentions. The curse demands mindless obedience. No way to break it for the wearer.”

Geralt leans in, mouth tight. “Can it be removed?”

“There’s a potion,” Vesemir says, flipping the page. “We’ll need frostleaf, feainnewedd, draconid bile... Should have all of that in the stores.”

“How long?” Lambert asks.

“It’s simple in theory, though the reagents are... volatile, if not handled with care.” Vesemir pauses. “Three days. Maybe four. I’ll handle the brewing.”

Relief pools in Lambert’s chest. He nods. “Thanks.”

Vesemir’s gaze lingers. “In the meantime,” he adds, and one grizzled brow ticks up, “you and your guest might want to bathe.”

Eskel snorts into his drink.

Lambert kicks him under the table before getting to his feet. A bath doesn’t sound half bad. “Come on,” he says.

The Cat doesn’t hesitate, puts the bowl down and rises silently, following Lambert out of the hall and down the winding hallways of the fort until they reach the bath chamber. It’s a squat room near the kitchen, with a basin system that pulls water from the cisterns on the roof. Lambert hauls the pump lever several times, the ice slowing things down, but eventually, water splashes from the pipe, and he casts a lazy Igni over the basin until steam begins to rise. He strips quickly, then gets in.

It’s a good bath. Nice and hot, the kind that soaks into the bones. Lambert settles in with a long exhale, but his neck won’t unwind—not with the Cat standing in the corner like a carved post, watching. “You’re making it weird,” Lambert grumbles. 

The Cat looks on.

Lambert scowls and dips underwater. 

Sooner than he would have under different circumstances, he washes up and gets out, drying off with a cloth, then starts pulling on clean clothes. The Cat hasn’t looked away once. 

Lambert waves a hand. “You’re up.”

The Cat obeys. He moves slowly, fingers tugging at crusted laces as he undoes the tunic he’s been wearing for gods know how many weeks. Lambert looks, because the Cat did the same to him, and finds more bruises, scars, something that looks like burns on his side, the skin pink and tight. 

No witcher is a blank canvas, but the Cat’s marks are excessive. Lambert turns away, pushing away the thought of what sort of tricks the thugs had their pet do, what orders they must have given him, day in, day out; what rules they must have installed in him to make him crawl towards Lambert without hesitation, offering…

Grimacing, he busies himself with finding the Cat fresh clothes, leaving the bath chamber. When he returns, the Cat is half-submerged in the water, staring into the distance. He doesn’t look like he’s moved since Lambert left.

“Wash your hair,” Lambert says, annoyance growing over having to play nursemaid.

The Cat dunks his head without comment, obediently working through the tangles. When he resurfaces and slicks his hair back, Lambert passes him some soap and tells him to clean up the rest, then orders him out and hands him a cloth, followed by a fresh tunic and trousers. The Cat dresses without needing to be told, thank fuck, and Lambert crosses his arms, studying him.

The difference is striking. No longer grimy, the Cat’s hair falls in soft waves. His face is thinner than it should be, and the patchy beard really needs to go, but he looks good. Normal, he means, except for the collar.

Lambert clears his throat. “Come on. You’re not sleeping alone. Need to keep an eye on you.”

He leads them back through the keep, boots echoing off cold stone, past the library and old armoury, until they reach his room, already made up by Geralt or Eskel. There, he tosses an extra blanket near the hearth and motions for the Cat to sit, proceeding to pull a spare bedroll from a dusty chest.

“Get comfortable,” Lambert tells him, tugging off his boots.

The Cat lies down without a word, eyes already closed when Lambert looks at him again. With a sigh, Lambert climbs into bed and stares at the rafters.

He fucking hates this. Hates being responsible for someone else, and a fucking Cat no less. 

Vesemir better work fast.

Three days pass, and Lambert is about ready to climb up the walls.

He’s told the Cat when to eat, when to sleep, when to sit, when to stop sitting, hell, even when to take a fucking piss! It’s maddening. The Cat trails him through Kaer Morhen like a mute shadow, always watching, always there.

Lambert’s been burning off the edge of his annoyance in the courtyard, sparring with Geralt and Eskel, but the Cat’s always ten paces away, eyes tracking Lambert’s every movement. It’s like being haunted by the Continent’s most pathetic wraith.

So when Vesemir finally steps out of the alchemy lab on day four, wiping one hand on a cloth at his belt and holding a small, stoppered vial of turquoise liquid in the other, Lambert’s on him in a second.

“Is that it?” he asks, and the hope in his own voice pisses him off.

Vesemir nods. “Tell the others to meet us in the hall. We’ll need Geralt and Eskel to hold him—there’s a chance he may turn violent. That collar’s been shaping his mind for who knows how long. It’ll be a shock.”

Lambert doesn’t need telling twice. He tracks down the others, then they all gather in the hall near the fire. Lambert orders the Cat—hopefully for the last time—to sit, and he obeys, settling on the same stool he’s been using for the past days, hands folded in his lap like a good little boy, staring mutely.

Lambert cannot wait for this shitshow to be over. “Don’t move,” he mutters.

Geralt and Eskel flank the stool, each setting a firm hand on one shoulder. Lambert comes to stand behind it, grabbing the Cat’s head and tilting it back, exposing his throat for Vesemir, who uncorks the vial. A sharp scent escapes—herbs and tar, burnt salt and crushed pine.

“Don’t let go,” Vesemir says, then leans forward and tips the vial with slow, precise care. 

The potion touches the metal. 

The reaction is immediate. A hiss—like steam off a forge—then light, bright and pulsing, searing across the collar in jagged, flickering bolts. The stench of magic rolls off it, bitter and cloying, setting Lambert’s teeth on edge. The metal glows red, then gold, finally snapping with a sound like cracking bone, and springing off in two clean halves.

For a heartbeat, there is silence.

Then the Cat’s whole body jerks. His spine goes rigid, his eyes—dull and distant just a second ago—sharpen so suddenly Lambert almost lets him go. There’s awareness in them now. And fear.

The Cat flinches, breath hitching. His gaze darts around the room, every muscle tensed. Then he makes a sound—raw, high-pitched, something like a wounded animal—and he starts thrashing. Geralt and Eskel tighten their grip, but the Cat bucks hard, managing to shake off Lambert’s hands on his head. He starts howling, struggling like he’s drowning, wielding his claws and scratching up Geralt’s forearm in the process. Lambert should have fucking filed them down. 

“Stop it,” he barks, when the Cat doesn’t calm, louder than he means to. “Fucking stop!”

Something in his voice must land. The Cat freezes mid-movement. His chest rises and falls in a hard shudder, then another. Finally, like all the strings holding him up have been cut, he sags.

Slowly, Geralt eases his grip. Eskel does, too. The Cat sits still, breathing like he just ran miles, eyes fixed on the floor. Eventually, he lifts his head, locking eyes with Lambert.

Lambert swallows hard at his expression, the sudden depth in his eyes, the lingering fear, the pain and the grief. 

“Thank you,” the Cat says, voice dry and cracked, “for freeing me.”

The Cat is named Aiden.

He looks like he’s been exorcised, something haunted in his eyes, but he’s different now: alert, aware, no longer just a quiet shape in the corner. He glances around the hall like he’s seeing it for the first time, shoulders tight with unease as he follows Vesemir’s invitation and sits down at the table.

It’s strange, watching him move. After days of silence and stillness, the subtle signs of personality feel like noise. Aiden speaks quietly, voice still rough, and gestures when he talks, brushing his hair out of his face every few sentences. Lambert realises he must not be used to wearing it long. Before all this, it was probably kept short.

“They found me in the mountains, in Lyria,” Aiden says, eyes on the table. “Early summer. I was coming off a contract. Took a wyvern trident to the ribs, lost too much blood.” He rubs at his side, as if still feeling it. “I wasn’t in shape to fight them.”

Geralt’s arms are crossed before him, Eskel sitting by Vesemir’s side. Noone interrupts.

“Drenik was the one to put the collar on me,” Aiden goes on, voice thinner now. “It doesn’t just control you. It… moves you out of yourself. Like you’re watching your own body from the bottom of a well. Everything that happens… you see it, you feel it. But you can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t stop any of it. You just… obey.” He looks up, first at Vesemir, then at Lambert. “Obey every single order.”

Lambert has to work hard not to look away, memories rising of Aiden crawling towards him.

Aiden clears his throat, shoulders drawing in a little as he looks around the table. “I’m sorry I came at you, before. When the magic wore off, I… panicked.” He looks back at Lambert. “Sorry for what happened in the forest, too.”

Lambert rubs a hand over the back of his neck, which has started prickling. “Barely scratched me up,” he replies. “You think a Cat can best a Wolf?”

Aiden doesn’t answer him, his eyes shifting back to Vesemir. “I know I’m not welcome here,” he says. “I’ll leave in the morning, at first light.”

Vesemir snorts. “You won’t make it five miles in the ice.” Aiden opens his mouth, to argue most likely, but Vesemir won’t let him speak. “You don’t know the passes,” he says bluntly. “We’re a week into winter, and this place barely sees sunlight till spring. You’ll stay until the thaw.” His tone brooks no argument.

Lambert looks at Eskel, Geralt. Neither protests, respecting Vesemir’s decision.

“I’ll make myself useful, then,” Aiden says, still sounding reluctant. “Help with maintenance, clean up.” He hesitates, eyes flicking towards Lambert, the others. “Keep out of the way, if you prefer.”

Lambert watches him, realising this isn’t what he expected Aiden to be like, without the collar. Supposes he expected arrogance, ungratefulness, sharp teeth. A Cat, after all. Instead he sees a man trying to make himself small to survive, and that realisation has something jagged and hard settle in his core.

He’s no longer Lambert’s problem, though, and that’s what counts. In fact, he’s done with this pity party; done listening to this depressing tale, done thinking about Aiden after days of being in charge of his every breath. Pushing to his feet, he says, “The stables need mucking,” and leaves the hall. 

Let the Cat make himself useful, or not—Lambert doesn’t want to see his godsdamned face either way.

The next few days pass, and Lambert stays clear of Aiden.

It’s easy to avoid him. Kaer Morhen, half-ruin or not, is a vast fortress, and it’s simple not to run into someone unless you’re looking for them. Vesemir has assigned their guest a room—tucked down a side hall that rarely sees foot traffic—and has been keeping him busy. Lambert hears Geralt mention it during training, hears Eskel say something about him helping reinforce the beams in the north wing, replacing rotted wood. Practical work. Good use of idle hands. 

It all suits Lambert just fine. The days are short, the work endless in a place slowly crumbling away, and he likes his routine. Training in the mornings. Fixing something around noon. Drinking in the evening. Plenty of ways to stay busy. Plenty of ways not to think.

Still, there’s a feeling in him, quiet but persistent, that something’s wrong. It creeps in around the edges like damp, like the cold, like the scent of smoke. It wakes him one night, sometime after midnight. He’s not sure what does it—there’s no sound, no dream, no thunderclap revelation. Just a shift in the air, some itch beneath the skin. He lies there for a while, staring up at the cracked ceiling, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

With a sigh and a muttered curse, Lambert throws off the blanket and pulls on a cloak. Maybe a walk will help. 

The wind screams through the gaps in the keep like it’s trying to claw its way in. Lambert’s breath ghosts in the cold air as he pads across the hall, then down a corridor, and another, finding he’s wandered to a part of the castle that one has to seek out to walk through, under normal circumstances. It’s a coincidence, though. He’s definitely not checking on Aiden.

Except, as he passes the door to what must be Aiden’s room, he notices it’s ajar. Just slightly, enough to see the slant of moonlight across crumpled bedding. No Cat in sight.

Lambert stops, frowning, wondering where he’s gone. Not because he’s worried, obviously, just because it’s stupid and reckless, wandering the keep in the middle of the night when the stones are iced over and the stairs crumble underfoot. Besides, what business does the Cat have, poking around this place in the middle of the night? It’s not his home. He’s a guest here, and an unwelcome one at that.

Scowling, Lambert turns and starts searching, sniffing until he thinks he catches a whiff of Cat near one of the western towers. The wind gets worse as he climbs the stairs. One of the upper windows must’ve cracked again. The stone under his feet is slick in patches, some steps are missing. Lambert keeps going. Up, up, past the old rookery, toward the highest tower—the one no one uses because the view is shit, and the ledge not exactly safe.

That’s where he finds him. Aiden’s standing at the very edge of the parapet, wearing nothing but trousers and a thin tunic. His hair’s loose, fluttering about, and there’s something almost spectral about him in the moonlight—skin pale, frame too thin for a witcher. The wall barely comes to mid-thigh there. One slip, one gust, and he’d go over.

Lambert doesn’t know why the image of Aiden falling punches the air from his lungs. “Hey,” he says carefully, afraid he’ll spook him.

Aiden doesn’t turn. “You stomp,” he says. “Heard you from a mile away.”

Lambert narrows his eyes at him. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”

Aiden looks on beyond the tower. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replies, the words half-carried away by another gust of wind.

Lambert approaches him slowly, boots scuffing against the frost. “You trying to catch a cold? Get out of shoveling shit in the stables?”

Something tugs at the corner of Aiden’s mouth. He glances at Lambert. “That why you came looking for me? You’re worried?”

“I don’t give a damn,” Lambert replies, folding his arms. “Just don’t want you getting your Cat paws where they don’t belong.”

Aiden looks away, sags a little where he stands. “Sorry,” he says, unexpectedly. He shakes his head, steps away from the ledge. “I’ve been coming up here most nights. Didn’t think it was a problem.”

Lambert watches him. “Why?” he asks.

Aiden looks at his feet. His voice is different now, brittle around the edges. “I keep dreaming,” he says. “About the collar. About Drenik and the others.” He looks at Lambert, shivering in the wind. “I wake up, and I don’t know where I am. And I think—I think I’m back with them, and any minute now, they will hurt me. Order me to—to get on my knees, open my mouth and….” He breathes out, shaky. “Well. You know.”

Lambert knows; remembers Aiden crawling through the snow, eyes blank; remembers him reaching for his laces.

Aiden rubs at his eyes. Up close, Lambert sees the dark circles there. He’s shaved since he last saw him. His face is drawn, the moonlight caressing his cheekbones. 

Lambert’s skin starts itching. “You look like shit,” he says, bluntly, 

“I’ve hardly slept since you got the collar off,” Aiden replies. He doesn’t seem offended. “My mind won’t stop. Everything’s too quiet. I keep thinking I’m still under, just dreaming all this. That none of it’s real.” He rubs at his eyes again, for good measure. When he looks at Lambert, the moon catches in his eyes. There are fucking tears. 

Lambert’s mouth grows dry, his ribs tightening. He’s never seen a witcher cry. That’s what the Trial is for, in part—purging emotion. “It’s fucking real,” he says.

Aiden huffs out a strange laugh. “I think I’m going mad,” he says.

Lambert opens his mouth. Closes it again. This isn’t his thing. He doesn’t do comfort. He’s good at swords and cursing. But he can’t walk away from this, either. Not with the moon swimming in Aiden’s eyes. “You can… move back in with me, if you want,” he says, on a whim. It comes out painfully awkward. 

Aiden stares at him.

Lambert’s cheeks start burning, but he can’t back out now. “Might help you sleep,” he adds, nonchalant, “having someone around.”

To his dismay, Aiden accepts. “Thanks,” he says, and smiles a bit, full lips stretching. It makes his cheeks pop, makes his face look less drawn.

Lambert has to look away, something heavy settling in his throat. “Right,” he forces out, and turns. 

Aiden follows.

They tread back to Lambert’s room in silence. The halls are dark, lit only by the moon. Aiden walks quietly beside him, and it reminds Lambert uncomfortably of the days before freeing him from the collar.

Inside Lambert’s room, the coals are casting a low red glow across the flagstones. Aiden doesn’t wait for instructions. He steps in, toes off his boots, then moves to the hearth, kneeling by the fire and stoking it before he stretches out on the bedroll Lambert had rolled up but not stored, settling in without a word.

Lambert stands awkwardly by the door for a long moment. He’s not sure what he expected. More conversation? But Aiden just lies there, eyes half-lidded, watching the flames flicker. Tense at first, but slowly, gradually, Lambert sees the muscles in his back loosen. Sees him shift, once, then again. Find some position that seems bearable.

Lambert, still not quite sure how this became his problem again, goes and sits cross-legged on his bed. He closes his eyes. Breathes. Tries to drop into the familiarity of meditation—the grounding pull of his body, the center in his chest.

He manages half an hour, maybe longer. Then Aiden screams.

Lambert’s up in an instant, instinct kicking before thought. Aiden is thrashing on the bedroll, the scream fading already, reduced to a broken sob caught low in his throat.

Lambert curses, crosses the room in two strides, crouches down, tries to grab the man’s shoulders and almost gets punched for his troubles. “Calm down,” he says.

Aiden is looking at him, but it’s like he doesn’t see, eyes wide and filled with panic. He’s still thrashing, but he’s filed down his claws since the collar came off, and Lambert manages to catch him by the wrist without being sliced open. “You’re in Kaer Morhen,” he says, tone low and rough. “You’re not with them anymore.”

The words sound ridiculous in his own ears—like someone else is speaking them. But they seem to work. Slowly, Aiden’s breathing evens out. His limbs stop twitching. His hands, clenched into fists, begin to loosen.

“It’s all right,” Lambert says, feeling stupid and way out of his depth. “You’re free.”

Aiden blinks, dazed. His hair is tousled, his lips parted, breath shallow. That feline face—too pretty by half—is stripped bare, the polar opposite of blank. Lambert wishes that it wasn’t. It feels wrong to see so much. Wrong that Aiden is letting him, when they barely know each other.

“Sorry,” Aiden breathes. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up,” Lambert says gruffly. “Don’t… don’t thank me. Just try and fucking sleep, all right?”

Aiden nods, small and shaky. Lambert lets go of him, straightens, turns away, trying not to think about how much colder the air feels away from the fire as he approaches the bed. Once seated, he runs a hand over his face. 

This was a mistake, he thinks. A big, fucking mistake.

At the hearth, Aiden curls up again, drawing the blanket up over his shoulders. It takes a long time for his breathing to even out again. 

Lambert watches him from the bed, looks at the faint scar at the nape of Aiden’s neck, and tells himself that this is temporary. Just until Aiden stops screaming in his sleep. 

Just until he stops looking like someone carved him hollow.

Seven nights pass like this, and Aiden wakes screaming at least twice each.

It’s always the same: the violent thrashing, the haunted look in his eyes, the way he claws at the bedroll or the hearthstones, how he lashes out blindly. Lambert’s learnt quickly to get his arms around him fast, learnt how to speak low and firm even when a knee clips his ribs or a fist glances off his jaw. Afterwards, Aiden blinks at Lambert with something between grief and shame, body trembling, breath like broken glass.

They don’t talk.

By the second week, Lambert’s jaw aches from where Aiden landed a half-conscious punch, and his shoulder’s sore from holding him down. Aiden wakes four times, soaked in sweat, panting and shaking, and Lambert is left lying on his bed afterward, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s helping at all. He seriously wishes he had killed Drenik. Sliced up his thugs one by one, and hung them up in the woods. If he ever sees them again, he’ll make mince out of them.

“I must look pathetic to you,” Aiden says from his place at the hearth, voice raw and low in the hush before dawn.

Lambert doesn’t think that—knows, from some of the things Aiden has been screaming, that he’s been through hell—but the words feel too large in his throat. “Come train in the morning,” he says instead.

Aiden turns toward him, bleary-eyed. “What?”

“Training,” Lambert repeats, trying to sound casual. “With us. Might help. Get you out of your own head a little.”

Aiden blinks. “You want me to spar with you?”

“I want you to hit something that isn’t me in the middle of the night.” Lambert huffs. “Just… think about it.”

There’s a long pause. Lambert doesn’t miss the way Aiden is reaching for his medaillon, playing with it. But he nods, slowly. “All right,” he says, soft. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Morning finds the courtyard crusted in snow. Lambert arrives with Aiden trailing behind him, wrapped in some old leathers Lambert unearthed from the armoury. Geralt and Eskel are already there, going through their stretches, blades slung at their backs.

Both of them raise their eyebrows when they spot Aiden. Eskel cocks his head at Lambert. “You adopting strays now?”

“Piss off,” Lambert mutters, shrugging out of his cloak. “He’s joining.”

To their credit, they don’t say anything else. Eskel tosses Aiden a practice blade, and after a few warm-up drills, the Cat ends up paired with him while Lambert turns to face off with Geralt. It’s a relief, honestly—and gives Lambert a chance to watch.

Aiden moves like a Cat should: quick and precise. He doesn’t hold the center of the courtyard like a Wolf, uses the walls instead, the surrounding space, climbing up onto a ledge before leaping down behind Eskel, trying to catch him off-guard. It’s not Lambert’s kind of fighting, but it’s undeniably elegant. His movements are clean, sinuous, and fast, and after a few minutes, he actually seems to shake off the short nights. Gone is the haunted look. Aiden looks free out here, unburdened as he gives Eskel a run for his money.

Unfortunately, he’s also very distracting. Lambert’s caught off guard watching Aiden scale a wall from the corner of his eyes, and Geralt knocks his legs out from under him with a well-placed sweep.

“Shit—!” Lambert lands hard in the snow, diving face-first into a drift. Geralt and Eskel are laughing at him when he straightens, wiping off the snow.

Lambert flashes them two fingers, ears burning, then looks at Aiden. 

He’s grinning. The first proper smile Lambert’s seen on him, and it transforms his whole face, crinkles around the eyes, cheeks popping.

Something flutters in Lambert’s chest. He makes sure to flip Aiden off, too.

Gradually, things get better at night. Aiden sleeps more, wakes less. He trains with them often, not every day, but every other perhaps, regaining some of the muscle he must have lost, well-fed by Vesemir’s cooking, and buffed by castle maintenance.

When three nights pass without a nightmare, Lambert thinks he ought to kick Aiden out, get his room back. A man ought to have his privacy.

He doesn’t, though. Only watches Aiden sleep, and listens to his steady heartbeat.

It happens after too many drinks, which is to be expected, but doesn’t make it any less foolish.

Ever since Aiden started training with them, he’s settled in well with the group. He’s not their brother, of course, but he can be quite funny when he wants to be, and isn’t a braggart. When he does tell a story, it’s tales of adventure and honour, the sort a bard would pick up and sing a song about. He doesn’t do assassinations, Aiden explains, and speaks with ambivalence about some of the teachings of his School, playing with his medaillon as he does. The caravan, he says, he left long ago.

Lambert believes him; it suits Aiden, suits his demeanour, which he thinks must have been calm and demure even before the collar.

He sticks close to Lambert these days, too: pairs up with him during training, drags him to the west wing to fix the roofs, tops up his ale at dinner, and smiles at his bite. It makes Lambert’s skin prickle, makes him stare at Aiden at night, wondering if he’ll cut the hair which keeps getting in his face, wishing that he won’t. Aiden seems to like him, genuinely so, which is rare. He doesn’t get along with a lot of people. 

Which is perhaps why four pints of ale are enough to make him reach out to Aiden when they return to Lambert’s chambers one night; why he grabs Aiden by the arm, pulls him in, and presses a kiss to his plush mouth.

Aiden doesn’t kiss him back, but it takes Lambert a moment to notice, busy running his hand through Aiden’s hair, taking in his smell; clocks it only when he tries to put some tongue into it, and is met by resistance. Stiffening, Lambert pulls back.

Aiden is staring at him, standing stock-still. He seems to have been struck mute; looks, Lambert realises with a pit opening in his stomach, like he did all those weeks ago: face blank, expressionless. Like he did when he crawled towards Lambert, compelled to offer his mouth.

“Shit,” Lambert says, taking a step back. “I wasn’t—Aiden, I—” 

Aiden turns and leaves abruptly, slamming the door on his way out.

Lambert looks at the quivering wood, tempted to follow, but ultimately takes a step back to sit on the bed. “Shit,” he says again. “Fuck.”

Aiden doesn’t return to Lambert’s room.

He does show up to training, though, keeping to the sidelines at first and not looking at Lambert as he stretches. Geralt and Eskel seem to sense something is wrong, but aren’t quite dumb enough to comment. They leave it to Aiden to pick a partner.

Aiden, to Lambert’s surprise, picks him.

It’s a proper fight. Aiden seems to be working through something, snarling whenever Lambert manages to hit him, which he does too hesitantly at first, shame and shock still stuck deep in his bones. Aiden wants a real fight, though, that’s clear, and Lambert knows all too well the therapeutic effects of hitting something with a sword.

And so they spar, long after Eskel and Geralt have stopped their fight, now hanging back to watch as Aiden scales the walls, chasing Lambert around the courtyard.

It’s a lucky strike on Aiden’s part that takes him down, Lambert slamming onto the ice with a loud oof. Aiden taps his chest with the training sword, pretending to finish him off. They look at each other for a long time, both breathing hard. 

Then Aiden smiles at him, cheeks popping, and something eases in Lambert’s chest. He smiles back. “Stroke of luck,” he says, and flips Geralt off when he comments on his poor form.

Aiden offers him a hand, pulling him up, and slings an arm around his shoulder. “Come on, grumpy,” he says, “the northern stairway won’t fix itself.”

Aiden returns that night, to Lambert’s room; sits on the bedroll for a while, quiet, then says, “It’s not that I’m not interested.”

It’s enough to make Lambert’s cheeks burn again. “Aiden—” he starts, but stops when Aiden raises his hand.

“I am, believe me,” he says, smiling at Lambert. “How could I not be. It’s just…”

And Lambert gets it. Thinks he gets it, anyway, because he can’t pretend he’s been through what Aiden has been through, despite being a witcher and going through some fucked-up shit in this fucked-up excuse for a life.

“Give me time?” Aiden adds, more quietly.

Lambert nods, thinking, Take all the time in the world, and only hates himself a little bit for being so fucking sentimental.

Spring arrives, and with it the thaw.

Ice drips in long rivulets from the eaves of Kaer Morhen, snow shrinking back from the edges of the keep, the air shifting to something softer, the promise of green things waking beneath the crusted earth. Winter is breaking. 

Inside, the fortress hums with quiet purpose. Vesemir moves through the halls like a man on a mission, checking rooms, inspecting gear, his arms full of wrapped rations and bottles of potions. Geralt and Eskel are packing, too, stowing away everything from oil to flint, securing leathers and blades. There’s a kind of ritual to it—same every year, the Path calling.

At the foot of the long table in the hall sits a new pack, neatly assembled. Aiden’s. Vesemir put it together himself, piece by piece: spare armour cleaned and mended, a pair of sharp knives, a silver sword suited to Aiden’s height, vials of potion in padded slots. Practical things. Needed things. 

Along with it comes an invitation. “You’re welcome at Kaer Morhen,” Vesemir says, shoving the pack at Aiden. “Anytime. Especially if you keep showing up with this much initiative. You’re not remotely as lazy as the rest of this lot.”

Aiden looks a bit incredulous, hands trembling a little as he accepts the gear, and Lambert, standing nearby, bumps his shoulder into him. “Careful, Cat, or he’ll make you a Wolf,” he says, smirking. 

“Perish the thought,” Aiden replies, but he’s playing with his medaillon again, and Lambert feels the same stupid flutter in his chest he’s been feeling for weeks when he sees him smile.

They head out the next morning, all four of them, boots crunching through the thinning snow, the sun just beginning to warm the stones of the keep behind them. The horses are trailing them, sniffing the air, excited to get out of the stables. The world smells like damp earth and pine, the wind mellowing as they approach the valley. It’s a peaceful descent, the quiet broken now and then by chatter, shared memories of winter meals, the occasional jab or grumble.

At the crossroads at the foot of the mountain, Geralt and Eskel head south, toward the lowlands, where contracts are waiting. 

“Try not to get yourself killed,” Geralt says, before shouldering his pack and mounting Roach.

“You wish,” Lambert replies, saluting him and Eskel, then watches them ride off longer than he means to.

When he turns to Aiden, his heart is thudding stupidly loud in his ears. It’s not nerves. Just something that he wants too badly to put into words. “So,” he says, shoving his hands in his belt. “What are your plans?”

Aiden glances at him, one brow raised, as though the question is baffling. “I thought that was obvious.” And he starts walking, heading westward. His hair sways with the spring breeze, long enough to cover the scar at his nape. A dozen steps or so down the road, he turns, frowning. “You coming? Need to find me a horse quick, or I’ll slow you down.”

Something warm and huge cracks open in Lambert’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, grinning, and follows.