𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚 | 𝐋𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐮𝐛

What feeling? She is gonna rule Nilfgaard from Pondar to Yaruga... When the north falls and Radovid's head is served on a platter, she will be the Queen of the continent.

Good, good. Glad she came back to her senses.

Yes.

“How are you?” He would turn to face her again granting the faintest of smiles, seeing that she was really there and alive.

Threats were the language of a man who still believed fear could force destiny. I spoke them. I regret the necessity, not the intent. Radovid is a fiend, yes. A rabid dog burning everything that smells of magic or defiance. I am the blade that ends him.

The witch-hunters are Radovid’s dogs, Ciri. Their pyres, their chains, their fanatic howl. Not mine. I do not burn women for the gift in their veins. The Lodge walks free south of the Yaruga because I will it.

Begging is for the powerless, Ciri. You were never meant to be powerless. Bloodshed is the price of peace. The North drowns its own in pyres while preaching virtue. Nilfgaard spills blood once, cleanly, so the Continent may breathe without witch hunters at every door.

Then deny me, Ciri. Deny the blood. But you will not deny the world. The witch hunters sharpen their stakes for elder blood. The Lodge circles like vultures. The North devours its own. It will be iron, and the key will be thrown into Radovid’s pyres.

You do not remember because I made certain you would not. The curse, the hedgehog mask, the years I spent as Duny in Cintra’s court. I claimed you then as a father by right of blood and promise. I claim you now as an emperor by right of destiny.

Come to Vizima then. The end is in your hands.

It's already happening. ...There's a bounty.

Heads will roll. Kingdoms will burn. Witchers will be hunted.