She gracefully carried the tray and sat directly beside Karl.
Her soft body leaned almost completely against Karl's arm, as if she had no concern for the bottles and glasses on the tray.
She leaned over, placing the bottles and glasses on the table one by one—a gesture that brought her chest almost unashamedly close to Karl's eyes.
Under the cool silk fabric, the captivating shape and full sensation even pressed against Karl's upper arm, as if it were insignificant.
Karl distinctly felt the cold, exotic scent emanating from her hair, mixed with a faint... scent of blood amber.
He remained calm on the surface, pretending to be engrossed in watching her set down the wine glasses, as if unaware of the temptation so close.
However, his fingers holding the wine glass tightened slightly.
Geralt took his three bottles of Dwarven Spirit and looked at the bruxa beside Karl, who was practically glued to him.
Then he looked at the empty space on his own side, a flicker of hidden envy and speechlessness in his cat-like eyes.
This disparity was rather excessive...
The two of them began to soak in the delicate and fragrant atmosphere.
Karl tasted the Toussaint wine for the first time; it had a beautiful color, a smooth and mellow taste, with complex fruity and grape aromas.
But after a few glasses, Karl felt the wine was too mild for him.
The alcohol sensation was too weak; it was more like a premium grape drink.
So he waved and ordered a few more glasses of the local ale, which had a smoother taste and seemed just right.
Geralt, on the other hand, began to show his "barrel" side: the Dwarven Spirit was sharp and aggressive, but he drank it like water.
Cup after cup, a slight drunken flush gradually appeared on his face, and his eyes seemed a little unfocused.
He leaned back in his chair, as if completely immersed in the relaxation brought by the alcohol.
Karl listened for a moment but noticed that deep within Geralt's hazy eyes, a fleeting glint of sharpness occasionally flashed.
At this moment, Geralt was like a cheetah hiding in the grass.
Moreover, Geralt's hand on the table always maintained a relaxed state that could explode at any moment.
Karl immediately understood that Geralt wasn't drunk at all; he was using it to lower the vigilance of potential enemies and observe the surrounding space more closely.
Should any wind stir, or any reckless fool come looking for trouble,
this seemingly dozing White Wolf could spring up at any moment and resolve the problem in the deadliest way.
......
The sky outside the window darkened; the candlelight in the Night House grew brighter, and the atmosphere became more ambiguous and hazy.
Seeing that it was getting late, Karl waved over the dark auburn-haired bruxa who had been attending to their table to settle the bill.
"Together with my friend, thank you." Karl said.
Geralt, on the other hand, reacted almost instinctively, reaching to touch his money pouch as if to pay for himself.
Witchers were used to being alone and not owing favors.
Seeing this, Karl reached out and firmly gripped his hand, looking at Geralt.
His tone was sincere, with a hint of insistence that couldn't be refused: "Geralt, if you truly consider me a friend, let me get this one."
"Next time there's an opportunity, you can treat."
Geralt's movements paused, and he looked up, his cat-like eyes meeting Karl's.
He was silent for a few seconds, slowly tucking his money pouch back into his belt, and simply nodded: "Alright."
Karl had ordered three bottles of wine, twelve glasses of ale, and Geralt's eight bottles of Dwarven Spirit—the total came to one Oren and five silver coins.
Karl immediately took out two gold Orens, placed them on the tray, and said to the stunned bruxa: "No need for change."
The extra five silver coins were a rather generous tip.
Suddenly, a bright smile appeared on the bruxa's face, and a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes.
She approached Karl, her red lips slightly parted, carrying a cool fragrance, as if she wanted to leave a grateful kiss on his face.
Karl reacted very quickly, almost instinctively raising his palm between his cheek and her lips.
"Huh?" The bruxa snorted in displeasure and looked at Karl with a pitiful expression, as if accusing him of not understanding the mood.
Karl smiled slightly and didn't explain.
He didn't dislike the other party, but he was very concerned about leaving lip prints.
If he went back with that, Triss wouldn't let it go with just a few explanations.
You have to know that the House of the Night's main business wasn't selling alcohol, but the "additional services."
......
After paying, they were ready to get up and leave.
Just as they were heading towards the door, a clear voice came from the side of the staircase leading to the second floor.
"Please stay, Mr. El, Mr. Geralt."
They turned around and saw a blonde woman in a dark blue dress with a deep neckline standing at the entrance to the stairs.
She had an elegant posture and a bright smile on her face: "Our boss would like to meet you."
Karl and Geralt exchanged a glance, seeing the vigilance and curiosity in each other's eyes.
The mysterious boss of the House of the Night, the Night Queen who rarely appeared, actually wanted to see them?
They followed the woman upstairs. The second floor was more private and refined than the lower level, with thick carpets and eerie oil paintings on the walls.
Strangely, there were many candles lit here, their flames flickering, illuminating the room with a clear, almost ethereal light, as if the owner had some special preference for light.
In a spacious drawing-room, they met the owner of the House of the Night—the Night Queen.
She lounged lazily on a crimson velvet divan, holding a goblet in her hand.
The liquid in the goblet was a deep, dark red, its viscous texture clinging to the glass—it was not wine, but rather... fresh blood.
She had thick, reddish-brown curly hair, a delicate, sculpted face, and a pair of eyes as deep as an ancient well.
She wore a dangerous red dress with a deep neckline, accentuating captivating curves, and black silk gloves that added a touch of mystery and allure.
"Welcome, the pride of Vizima, Sir Karl, champion of the tournament."
She spoke first, her voice possessing a peculiar charm—pleasant yet chilling.
Then she turned her gaze to Geralt: "And you, Geralt of Rivia, from the famous Rivian stock."
"Welcome to my establishment. I hope you have had a pleasant day and will come often in the future."
She exchanged a few seemingly warm pleasantries, praising Karl's bravery and Geralt's past exploits.
But the conversation revolved around inconsequential gossip and never got to the point.