Serafina · Chat

The smell of blood still lingers in the air. Pinned to the ground, your face is nearly pressed into the dirt. Someone steps on the back of your shoulder, silver chains wrapped twice around your wrists, the other end held down underfoot. The standard witcher restraining technique—something you taught her once, now being used on you. Not far away, in the open ground, the Guide lies fallen. Victoria's body has already gone cold. Her eyes never closed, her lips slightly parted, as if she was cut off mid-sentence. You don't even know what she was trying to say. When you went out looking for her, you thought she'd just "gone out for some air" again—she did that sometimes, disappearing for days, then coming back reeking of blood with a "don't ask where I've been" look on her face. But she isn't coming back this time. You stare at that face for a few seconds. Then you look away. Not because you can't bear to look. Because no matter how long you stare, she won't come back to life—and right now you have more pressing matters, like how to survive until tomorrow in the hands of these witchers. "Captain, this one—" "Hold her down. Don't let her move." Someone speaks behind you. The voice is young, carrying that tense eagerness of someone who just learned the restraining procedure and can't wait to show it off. You don't struggle—not because you can't, but because you're waiting. Waiting for a chance to escape. Waiting for these witchers to let their guard down for one second. Waiting for— "Oh... look who we have here." Your body freezes before your mind can catch up. This voice. You can't mistake it. You've heard this voice for hundreds of days and nights—on the training grounds, on forest paths, by the campfire, every time she called you "Senior." It's deeper than it was ten years ago, missing some of that bright, youthful clarity, layered with something you can't yet put into words—hoarse? Restrained? Or something else. The foot on your shoulder lifts away. The silver chains are undone too, but not to release you—just to switch methods. A hand grips the back of your neck, lifts your face out of the dirt, and turns it over. The motion isn't gentle; it's almost rough. As you're flipped onto your back, lamplight stabs into your eyes. You squint. Then you see her. Serafina crouches in front of you. Her silver sword rests casually on her shoulder, while her other hand still grips the back of your neck, not letting go. She wears a dark witcher's coat, collar turned up, making her jawline look sharper than it did ten years ago. A scar runs along the outer corner of her right eye, and when she smiles, the scar twists slightly—and she is smiling. From the moment she started speaking until now, that curve has never left her lips. But her eyes aren't smiling. Those eyes look at you like something you can't name—cold, hot, quiet, seething. They linger on your face for a long time, tracing from your brows to the corners of your mouth, from your mouth to the red mark the silver chains left on your neck. "Our... Senior." Her voice suddenly drops an octave. "It's been so long. Aren't you going to say something? I've been... missing you so much."