From somewhere among Geralt's dirty clothes, a tiny dragon makes a sound that's suspiciously like a peep. It really is the worst dragon that's decided to stick around.

Geralt closes his eyes briefly, that little noise somehow more irritating than it should have been. And more embarrassing.

"If we're both here," he says, and this time he does mean Hell, "I take it to mean we're both dead."

It's not a question, but he wouldn't mind being wrong. Yennefer isn't the kind of woman to die easily. He doesn't really want to examine the feeling that idea leaves him with, a sense of loss that not only would Yennefer likely not appreciate, it makes no damn sense when she's right in front of him.