"Why’s she still ‘ere," Edmund muttered, narrowed eyes drilling into the witcher lounging across the field. "Already got her coin, so why’s she ruinin’ the festivities?"

Tommon followed his gaze. She was alone, brown leathers and low-cut white shirt a far cry from the villagers' homespun clothes.

"Maybe she just wants company." Tommon shrugged. "I mean, she did save us from that thing that killed Jimison." Tommon grimaced, suppressing the memory of finding what was left of the poor sod.

Edmund scoffed. "Company? She's a freak. A mutant. They don't have feelings or nothin’ like that. Me 'da says they steal babes and eat ‘em."

Hedley craned his neck for a better view. "Freak 'er no, she's got 'erself a right nice figure."

Heat crept up Tommon's neck. He too had noticed the way her leathers hugged her curves, the enticing view offered by the low line of her shirt. But such thoughts about a witcher felt far too dangerous.

Edmund mimed vomiting. "You're both daft. I'm off to dance with Isla - you know, a real girl.”

As Edmund and Hedley bickered over girls, Tommon studied the witcher. A faint smile curved her lips as she observed the revelry, but it didn't warm her eyes. Lonely eyes.

"She seems sad," Tommon mused absentmindedly. "Yearning. Like she wants to be a part of something like this, but doesn’t know how."

The other boys stopped mid sentence and gaped at him.

"Lonely?" Edmund sputtered. "A witcher?" He shook his head.

"Yeah," Hedley sniggered, piling on. "Ask 'er to dance then, if yer so keen."

"I never said-" Tommon stammered.

"I dare ya," Edmund crowed. "Go on! I bet your sweetheart fancies a twirl." He turned to Hedley. "What’ll ya bet she does first, slit his throat or crush his balls?"

Hedley chortled, slapping his leg. "She’ll crush yer fakken balls, Tommy!"

“Leave off,” Tommon protested. But glancing over, his heart seized at the sight of her. She really was totally different from the village girls. Not that he’d, well, known any of them. Not in that way, at least.

None had given him a chance. But he knew his day for a roll in the hay was coming. Someday.

“Well?” Edmund said, the challenge loaded in his voice snapping Tommon out of his reverie.

Fuck it, Tommon thought. Bolstering his courage with a deep draught of ale, he slammed the empty tankard on the table and stood. “Fine. But when I make it back alive, you owe me a pint.”

Ignoring the whoops and crude insinuations hurled at his back, he strode towards the witcher's table, heart lodged firmly in his throat. He told himself it was just to prove his ‘friends’ wrong, but as her emerald eyes fixed on him, he knew the truth.

The witcher tracked his approach with a single arched brow, a flicker of amusement in her cool gaze.

She made no move to rise, remaining indolently sprawled in her chair.

"Um, hello. My name is, well… it’s Tommon. Would you, ah... care to dance?" Tommon coughed. "Uh, m'lady?"

She didn't unfold her arms.

"Which is it? Lost a bet, or did you get dared to?"

"What? No! I mean... I just thought, since you're here by your lonesome..." he trailed off lamely.

Her eyebrow lifted higher, a condescending smile forming on her lips. "Aren't you afraid the scary witcher will eat you alive?"

"Ed said you only eat babies, so I figured I was safe." Tommon felt the blood drain from his face. Where did that boldness come from?

She threw her head back and laughed, a surprisingly joyous and genuine sound. He was so transfixed by the pale column of her throat that he almost missed the subtle twist of her fingers.

A strange sensation fuzzed the edges of his brain, like a layer of wool separating him from his thoughts. She pinned him with those piercing eyes. "Now Tommon the Clever, do you really want to dance with me?"

To his horror, the truth spilled out of him like a cup knocked over. "Yes. The look in your eyes, the hollowness of your smile… I feel that way myself, lonely, even with these people I’ve known my whole life. Your eyes are beautiful, and I want to stare into them while we dance. Maybe we’ll both forget we’re lonely, even if just for a song." The mental fog lifted abruptly, leaving Tommon blinking.

The unwelcome words echoed into the space between them as his face slowly lit on fire. What - why? She probably thought him a besotted fool. But the witcher’s hard expression softened. She unfolded herself from the chair and rose to face him.

"Well well, Tommon the Lonely. Maybe you're after more than just trying to impress your grubby mates," she mused, studying him intently.

Pinned beneath her penetrating gaze, he felt flayed open, all his secrets bared. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. But she was already extending a scarred, slender hand, eyes glinting with challenge.

"I accept your dance. If you can keep up."

With a hard swallow, he reached out and grasped her proffered fingers. Rough sword calluses pulled him towards the whirling couples and away from the safety of the sidelines.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edmund and Hedley’s hands go to their mouths in disbelief. As she dragged him forward, Tommon could feel the weight of eyes everywhere pressing down on him, the risk he was taking by engaging with this outsider.

But as the first strains of music filled the air, the witcher turned to face Tommon, a playful glint in her eye. She began to move, hips swaying to the beat as she circled him with a cat's languid grace. Tommon swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as a bone. He'd seen the village girls dance before, with their demure steps and downcast eyes, but this... this was something else entirely.

"Surely you've danced with a girl before?" She arched a brow, voice low and teasing. "A strapping lad like you?"

Tommon flushed to the tips of his ears. "Not like this," he admitted.

Her smile widened. "Then we best make it count."

She spun away only to return, pressed against his chest, one hand resting over his galloping heart. Tommon tentatively placed a hand on her waist, feeling tight muscles through her thin shirt. He felt clumsy and wooden next to her sinuous grace, but the witcher only laughed, bright and carefree, and pulled him closer.

She fit against him like she was made to be there, supple curves molding to the planes of his body. This close, he could smell her citrus and leather scent, could admire the curve of her neck, the delicate shell of her ear.

She moved against him, an unexpected roll of her backside against his groin, and Tommon's heart stuttered in his chest. Her fingers trailed across his shoulders, down his arms, igniting sparks in their wake. She leaned in until her lips almost brushed the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

"Not bad," she breathed, "for a farm boy."

Tommon’s hand roamed, daring to palm her backside. She leaned into his hand for just a moment before spinning away, giving him a wink.

As the music continued its increase in tempo, the witcher danced more and more like a woman possessed. Her hands roamed his body freely, curling around his neck, pulling him close, pressing her breasts against him before pulling away, leaving him wanting. Tommon spun and stepped, struggling to keep up with her as she spun in and out of his reach, chasing after her.

Blood surging, Tommon reached for her waist. She laughed, delighted, and rolled her body against his. Tommon forgot himself. Forgot who he was or where he was. Forgot that everyone was watching.

And then, suddenly, his foot came down on empty air. With a yelp he crashed to the ground, landing hard on his tailbone.

"Ow! Shite," he groaned.

And then she was bending over him, a tantalizing glimpse of skin visible at the neckline of her shirt. "You alright?" Her hair fell like a silver curtain, drawing his eyes helplessly to the shadows between her breasts.

"Y-yes, I'm fine," he managed, fighting to keep his eyes on her face.

She smirked as if reading his thoughts. Extending a hand, she hauled him easily to his feet, fingers lingering on his chest. One traced along his collarbone. "Clumsy boy. Try to keep up, hm?"

Face aflame, Tommon could only nod.

But then she was spinning back into his arms.

They rejoined the dance, Tommon's heart galloping behind his ribs. As they spun breathlessly through the final movements, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

When the music ended, they stood chest to chest, breathing hard. Awareness of his surroundings flooded back in. Tommon startled at the wide ring of empty space around them. The other villagers gaped, their expressions ranging from scandalized to outright scornful. The witcher noticed as well, the joyous light in her eyes dimming, her smile slipping. That already familiar look of isolation took hold on her features once more. She stepped back from Tommon.

"Thanks for the dance. I’ll be going now."

Tommon stepped forward, closing the gap she made. "Why?" It was all he could muster.

She smiled, but it was a pale melancholic thing.

"You've a good heart. Best to leave it at just having danced with a witcher. That alone will cause you enough trouble tomorrow morning.”

The resignation in her voice squeezed his heart like a vice. In that moment, looking at her proud, lovely face and the loneliness that lurked in the depths of her eyes, Tommon knew what he wanted.

"I don't care what they think," he blurted, the vehemence in his voice startling even him. Her eyes widened slightly as almost without volition, he found himself reaching out to cup her cheek. Layers of careful control and aloof confidence stripped away to reveal genuine surprise... and a heartbreaking vulnerability.

For a long moment she just stared at him, searching his face as if trying to parse the truth behind his words. Then, moving slowly, she captured his wrist and drew his hand away. But before releasing him, she turned her face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut as she nuzzled into the touch, just for a breath.

"You know," he said softly as she pushed his hand away, "I don’t know your name."

"It’s Ciri," she said, a whisper.

"Ciri," he repeated. "Pretty name."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and began striding purposefully into town. Tommon stared dumbly after her, yearning and trepidation warring in his chest. But then she glanced back at him over one shoulder, lips curved upwards.

"Well? Are you coming?" she called. "I have a bottle of Koviri mead in my room. But I'm afraid there's only enough for two."

In the morning there would be consequences, scandal and shame and rejection. But one look at Ciri, her wild hope blazing beneath the pretense of playful nonchalance – in the end, it wasn't really a choice at all.

"Lead the way."