Chapter 37: APPROACHING CIVILIZATION
The road changed on the third week.
Not physically—the packed earth still wound through the same endless forests we'd traveled for days. But the feeling shifted. More wheel ruts carved into the mud. Cleared fields appearing between tree lines. The distant sound of axes biting into timber.
Civilization approaching. Or us approaching it.
[TRAVEL STATUS: DAY 52]
[DESTINATION: 3 DAYS REMAINING]
[CIRI-LINK: STABLE — MONITORING]
The Tier 2 Link had settled into something manageable over the past two days. I no longer startled at every shift in Ciri's emotional state. The constant awareness had become background—like hearing your own heartbeat when the room goes quiet. Present, but not overwhelming.
"Refugees."
Geralt's voice pulled my attention forward. A column of people trudged along the road ahead—families with carts piled high, children walking beside exhausted parents, the occasional soldier in mismatched armor bringing up the rear.
Moving north. Away from something.
"Nilfgaard's push must have reached the eastern provinces." Yennefer's tone carried grim assessment. "These are farmers, not warriors. They're fleeing the conquest."
We slowed our horses, giving the refugees space to pass. Eyes turned toward us—fear, hope, desperation flickering across faces too worn for proper caution. A Witcher, a sorceress, two others who didn't fit any comfortable category.
"Any news from the south?" Geralt asked a man leading a laden donkey.
The man's laugh held no humor.
"News? Nilfgaard took Cintra's remnants. Temeria's fighting but losing. Kaedwen's pretending neutrality while selling supplies to whoever pays." He spat into the road. "The North is dying, Witcher. And nobody's coming to save it."
Ciri's hand tightened on her reins. Through the Link, I felt her reaction—old grief surfacing, memories of a kingdom that had fallen before she could save it.
Cintra. Her grandmother's kingdom. Her birthright, now ash and occupation.
"What about mages?" Yennefer pressed. "The Brotherhood, the Lodge—any organized resistance?"
"Mages?" The man's expression soured further. "Hunted or bought. Nilfgaard's offering gold for any spellcaster who'll serve. Those who refuse..." He drew a finger across his throat. "The witch hunters work for the Empire now."
[POLITICAL UPDATE: NORTHERN KINGDOMS — CRITICAL]
[MAGE STATUS: HUNTED/RECRUITED]
[NILFGAARDIAN EXPANSION: ACCELERATING]
We let the refugees pass, their column stretching behind us like a wound on the landscape. Families who'd lost everything, walking toward an uncertain future in territories that might fall next month.
"There's more." Yennefer's voice was low, meant only for our group. "I've been monitoring communication channels. The Lodge is fracturing—some members want to negotiate with Nilfgaard, others are organizing resistance. And there are... bounties."
"On whom?"
"Various targets. Rebel leaders, escaped nobles, anyone with political value." Her violet eyes met mine briefly before settling on Ciri. "Including the Lion Cub of Cintra. Still unclaimed, still hunted."
Ciri's face went pale.
"They're still looking for me."
"They never stopped." Yennefer's pragmatism cut through any comfort. "Emhyr wants his daughter. The Lodge wants Elder Blood. Every faction with ambition sees you as a prize to be claimed."
The Link pulsed with Ciri's fear—sharp, immediate, layered over older trauma she'd never fully processed.
She's been running since she was a child. And the world keeps reminding her why.
"Then we need to be more careful." I moved my horse alongside Ciri's. "How much further to this town?"
"Two hours. It's a trading post—larger than the villages we've passed, but not a major city." Yennefer consulted something only she could see. "We need supplies, and I need to check a dead drop for messages. But Ciri can't enter as herself."
"Disguise?"
"Obviously. But not just clothing—her bearing, her speech patterns. The Lion Cub of Cintra is recognizable by more than her hair."
Ciri's jaw tightened.
"I know how to hide. I've been doing it for years."
"Then do it well. One mistake, one person who looks too closely, and we'll have Nilfgaardian intelligence on us within days."
The rain started as we discussed options.
Cold, miserable, the kind of spring rain that found every gap in clothing and settled into bones. I pulled my cloak tighter, feeling water trickle down my collar despite my best efforts.
"Could be worse." The words escaped before I could stop them. "Could be—"
Three pairs of eyes fixed on me with varying degrees of warning.
"Don't," Geralt said flatly. "Don't finish that sentence."
"Agreed." Yennefer's glare could have frozen the rain mid-fall. "The universe listens when people tempt it."
I raised my hands in surrender.
"Fair point."
Despite everything—the refugees, the war news, the knowledge that hunters were closing in—Ciri laughed. A small sound, barely more than a breath, but real.
Good. She needs moments like this. We all do.
[WEATHER: DETERIORATING]
[MORALE: MAINTAINED]
The town appeared through the rain like a mirage solidifying into reality.
Stone walls surrounding a cluster of buildings, smoke rising from chimneys, the sound of commerce and life drifting across the fields. A trading post at a crossroads, the kind of place where information moved as freely as goods.
Also the kind of place where spies gathered news for whoever paid best.
We stopped at a grove of trees a quarter mile from the main gate. Yennefer produced a bundle from her saddlebags—simple clothes, a servant's cloak, a headscarf that would cover Ciri's distinctive ash-blonde hair.
"Change. Quickly, before we're seen."
Ciri dismounted without complaint, moving behind a thick trunk for privacy. Through the Link, I felt her emotions shift—resignation, frustration, the particular weariness of someone who'd learned to erase themselves for survival.
She's done this before. Too many times.
When she emerged, the transformation was unsettling. The clothes were deliberately drab—browns and grays that drew no attention. The headscarf hid her hair completely. But more than that, her posture had changed. Shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, moving with the shuffling uncertainty of someone accustomed to being overlooked.
The princess had become a servant. The change was seamless and heartbreaking.
"I've done this before," she said quietly, noting my expression. "During the escape from Cintra. During the years with the Rats. Becoming invisible is a skill."
"One you shouldn't have needed to learn."
"Probably not. But I did." She pulled the cloak tighter. "Let's get this done."
[CIRI STATUS: DISGUISED]
[DETECTION RISK: REDUCED]
We entered the town as unremarkable travelers—a Witcher (those were common enough to draw attention but not alarm), a merchant's wife (Yennefer's cover), her servant (Ciri), and a bodyguard (me). The gate guards barely glanced at us, more interested in the refugees still trickling in than in people with coin.
The market square was chaos managed. Stalls selling everything from preserved meat to weapons, merchants shouting prices, townspeople moving through the crowd with practiced efficiency. I stayed close to Ciri, the Link feeding me her state constantly—elevated heartrate, controlled breathing, the quiet terror of someone walking through a room full of potential threats.
Yennefer handled the supply purchases with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd done this many times. Geralt drifted toward the tavern where information tended to gather. I kept my attention on Ciri and our surroundings simultaneously.
Two Nilfgaardian soldiers by the fountain. Not watching us—watching everyone. A man in civilian clothes who moves like military. Three possible watchers at café tables.
The professional paranoia I'd learned in another life served well here. Threat assessment, crowd monitoring, exit strategies forming automatically.
"We're leaving," Yennefer announced, returning with a laden satchel. "I have what I need."
We didn't hurry—hurrying drew attention. But we moved with purpose, exiting through the same gate we'd entered, disappearing into the rain and the road beyond.
No one followed.
This time.
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