Since getting out of Cintra, finding the mysterious Geralt has been the only driving force pushing Ciri forward. She'd given no thought to what might happen after, concerned only with surviving long enough to actually reach that point — and now that she has, she's no better prepared for it than he seems to be. There's an oddly adrift feeling, of having reached her goal, fulfilled her grandmother's final command, and then... what?

Geralt doesn't seem any more equipped either, and not for the first time in the last couple of days since leaving behind the cottage in the woods does Ciri wonder, what makes this her destiny? A stranger, a "Witcher," an unknown man Grandmother had never even mentioned before that night?

There's no doubt that this is who she was meant to find, though. The mistrustful suspicion bordering on paranoia that's dogged her journey seems at ease with him, a skittish animal finally sleeping in safety. She's uncertain, quiet — but not afraid of him at all. It's only that that doesn't really tell her anything except she found the right man.

His words bring Ciri's drifting focus back into alignment, and she blinks at him from across the snapping campfire. "Oh," she says softly, the thought reminding her that her stomach exists, and that two nice meals with the farmer's wife aren't enough to offset weeks of scraping by on vermin and weeds. "Yes, a little."