"Oh, yes," she says, even as she blinks away sudden stinging tears. They don't fall – she's more master of herself now than she was when she came here a shattered, terrified mess – but they make her green eyes gleam like spring grass shining with dew.

"Geralt. The White Wolf. A witcher of Kaer Morhen." Her smile is slightly watery but warm with memory. "I told you destiny dogged my footsteps since before I was even born. Geralt of Rivia was that destiny."