Within the abandoned sanctuary, it smelled of wet earth, centuries-old moss, and stagnant fear. Bleak sunbeams, piercing through the dome, trembled helplessly on the edge of the bare steel. The hunt had come to an end. The former sorcerer, who had so desperately tried to escape the Catriona plague that he reshaped his own body with magic and potions, was no longer hiding in the temple alcoves. This hideous creature, held hostage by its own madness, froze before Ciri. Beneath the arches where time stood still, Zireael prepared to strike a single blow. Not for a contract, but to bring peace to one who had lost his human form long ago.