Chapter 101: Counting the Cost
POV: Ciri
The pyres burned at sunset.
Forty-seven of them, arranged along the cliffs overlooking the ocean, each holding a Skellige warrior who had died defending Kaer Trolde from the Wild Hunt. The flames painted the sky in colors that seemed too beautiful for mourning—golds and crimsons that reminded Ciri of autumn leaves in Cintra's orchards, before the world had burned.
She stood among the mourners, feeling their grief press against her like physical weight. These people had died because of her. Because her blood called to hunters across dimensions. Because protecting her meant standing against nightmares made flesh.
Beside her, Adam leaned heavily on a crutch that Lambert had fashioned from driftwood. Two weeks since Eredin's blade had nearly killed him, and he still couldn't stand unaided for more than minutes at a time. The spectral ice wound had closed, but something deeper continued healing—Rán said his spirit had been damaged, and spirit wounds took longer than flesh to mend.
"Björn Haraldsson." Jarl Crach's voice carried across the assembled crowd, naming each fallen warrior in turn. "Third of his name, veteran of thirty battles, husband to Sigrid, father to three daughters. He held the eastern gate until his strength failed, and his strength did not fail until the enemy broke against it."
The pyre blazed higher. Sigrid—the widow—stood rigid, face wet with tears she didn't bother hiding. In Skellige, grief was not weakness. Grief was proof that the dead had been loved.
"Torsten the Bold. Youngest warrior to face the Hunt, fifteen summers old. He died shielding civilians with his body when no shield remained."
Ciri's throat tightened. Fifteen. A boy, really. A boy who had been alive because he wanted to be a hero and was now ash because heroes died young in worlds where monsters were real.
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The widow approached me after the ceremonies concluded.
I recognized her—Sigrid, whose husband Björn had fought beside me during the worst moments of the battle. He'd been a mountain of a man, wielding an axe that seemed too heavy for normal humans, roaring challenges at Hunt riders while frost crept up his arms.
He'd frozen solid while defending my flank. I'd heard the cracking of ice, turned too late, found him a statue that shattered when the next blow landed.
"Storm-Brother." Her voice was hoarse from crying but steady. "My husband spoke of you before the battle."
"I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate. "I tried to—"
"He said you were different." She continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Foreign boy with power beyond understanding, but humility beyond expectation. Said you'd bring glory to Skellige or death trying. He was right about both."
"He died because of me. Because the Hunt tracks Ciri, and I'm attached to her."
"He died because the Hunt came to our islands, and warriors meet threats with steel." Sigrid's hand found my arm, grip stronger than expected. "Don't dishonor his choice by treating it as mistake. Björn chose to fight. Chose to stand beside you. Chose to die defending blood of Tuirseach. That choice was his, not yours."
"But if we hadn't come—"
"If you hadn't come, the Hunt would have found another target eventually. Or attacked without warning, without preparation, without warriors ready to meet them." Her eyes—red-rimmed but fierce—held mine. "You gave Skellige time to arm itself. Gave my husband death in battle rather than death in bed. In our way, that's gift, not curse."
She released my arm, turned toward the fading pyres. "Live well, Storm-Brother. Make his death worth the cost."
Then she walked into the crowd, and I was left standing with guilt that refused to fade despite her forgiveness.
—Scene Break—
POV: Ciri
She found him later in their quarters, sitting by the window, staring at nothing.
"Adam." She crossed to him, knelt beside his chair. "Talk to me."
"Forty-seven dead." His voice came flat, emotionless in a way that frightened her more than tears would have. "Forty-seven families without fathers, mothers, children. Because the Hunt hunts you, and I'm your shield."
"That's not—"
"It's exactly what it is." He turned to face her, and the pain in his eyes made her breath catch. "Every person who dies defending us is a person who'd be alive if we weren't here. Every funeral pyre, every widow, every orphan—they're paying the price for our survival."
"You think I don't know that?" The words came sharper than intended. "You think I haven't counted every death since Cintra fell, wondering if running would have saved more lives than fighting? You think I don't lie awake at night, calculating whether existing is worth the cost?"
"Then why—"
"Because existing isn't a crime!" She grabbed his hands, forced them together in her own. "The Hunt's aggression is the crime. Nilfgaard's conquest is the crime. My being alive doesn't make me guilty of their choices. And neither does protecting me make you guilty of theirs."
"But if I hadn't—"
"Stop." Geralt's voice came from the doorway. The witcher entered without invitation, settling into a chair with the ease of someone who'd witnessed this conversation a thousand times in various forms. "Both of you, stop."
"You're not part of this discussion."
"I'm the adult in the room, which makes me part of every discussion whether you want me or not." His golden eyes swept between them. "Adam, guilt means you care about consequences. That's healthy. Guilt that paralyzes you, prevents action, makes you question whether protecting Ciri is worth the cost—that's the guilt of someone who's forgotten why they fight."
"I haven't forgotten—"
"Then remember." Geralt leaned forward. "Skellige warriors died defending their homeland from supernatural invasion. They'd have died eventually anyway—of old age, of accident, of monsters that visit these islands regardless of your presence. What matters isn't that they died. What matters is that they died for something, protecting someone, with purpose rather than pointlessness."
"That doesn't make their deaths good."
"No. But it makes their deaths meaningful. There's a difference." The witcher stood, moved toward the door. "Channel your guilt into determination. Grow stronger. Prevent future deaths by becoming capable of ending the threat entirely. That's how you honor their sacrifice—not by doubting whether the sacrifice was worth making."
He left without waiting for response.
Ciri and Adam sat in silence for a long moment.
"He's right," she said finally. "I hate it, but he's right."
"I know." Adam's hand tightened on hers. "I just... I need time. To process. To accept that other people's choices aren't my responsibility."
"Take the time. But don't take forever." She kissed his forehead. "We have work to do."
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The work began the next morning.
Skellige's healers had done what they could for the battle's survivors, but their methods were limited—herbs and poultices and prayers to gods who may or may not have been listening. Dozens of wounded warriors lingered in various states of recovery, some healing well, others fighting infections or complications that threatened to finish what Hunt blades had started.
I could do more.
"Hold still." My hands hovered over a warrior's infected leg wound, water drawn from a basin beside the bed responding to my will. "This might feel strange."
The technique had evolved through practice—not just cleaning wounds but reaching into them, pulling infection from flesh like poison from a snakebite. The water found inflammation, surrounded it, extracted it, left behind tissue that could heal properly.
[ Healing Performed: Major Infection Cleansing ]
[ MP: 910/910 → 850/910 ]
"By the gods." The warrior—a young woman named Yrsa who'd been fighting a fever for days—stared at her leg in wonder. "The burning stopped. It just... stopped."
"You'll need rest and clean bandages, but the infection's gone." I moved to the next bed, another patient, another wound that medicine alone couldn't address.
Twelve hours later, I'd healed forty-three warriors, six civilians, and two horses.
[ MP: 910/910 → 50/910 ]
[ Healing Experience: +300 XP ]
[ Waterbending: Approaching Master Tier ]
[ Note: Healing capabilities significantly improved through intensive practice ]
Exhaustion pressed against my consciousness like a physical weight. I'd pushed further than ever before, drained MP reserves to dangerous lows, but the satisfaction of seeing warriors walk who'd been bedridden made the cost worthwhile.
"You're killing yourself." Ciri's voice came from the infirmary doorway. "Slowly, but surely."
"I'm helping people."
"You're avoiding your own healing by focusing on others." She crossed to me, supported my weight as my legs threatened to give out. "The spectral wound isn't fully closed. Every time you deplete yourself, you delay your own recovery."
"These people need—"
"These people need you alive and functional for when the Hunt returns. Not exhausted and weak because you couldn't pace yourself." She guided me toward the exit. "Tomorrow, you heal half as many. The day after, half again. Build yourself back while helping others, not at the expense of yourself."
"Since when are you the sensible one?"
"Since you decided to be the martyr." But her tone held affection rather than accusation. "Come on. Bed. Sleep. Doctor's orders."
I didn't argue. Couldn't argue. The world was already going gray around the edges.
But even as exhaustion claimed me, satisfaction remained. Forty-three warriors walking because I'd helped them. Forty-three lives that the Hunt's attack hadn't managed to claim.
"That's how you honor their sacrifice. Not by doubting—by doing."
Geralt's words, finally making sense.
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