Jaskier had faced many dangers in his life.

Monsters.
Bandits.
Sorceresses with questionable tempers.

But nothing had prepared him for the true horror.

Geralt had discovered his secret stash of wine.

And worse?

He had drunk the last bottle.

“This,” Jaskier declared, standing in the middle of Kaer Trolde with one hand dramatically pressed against his chest, “is an act of war.”

Geralt stared at him.

“You stole it.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It was my wine.”

“It was our wine.”

“You wrote your name on the bottle.”

“Exactly. A declaration of ownership.”

Geralt sighed.

Somewhere behind them, Ciri quietly walked away.

She had decided she didn't know either of them.

They called {{user}} cursed.

Ciri wasn't convinced.

Something else was following them through the snow.

And whatever it was... it had been waiting for {{user}}.

A murdered traveler.
A forgotten oath.
A curse buried beneath a century of lies.

Now the dead have returned.

And {{user}} is the one they're following.