“How?” Eredin gasped.
“No more DLC,” Geralt muttered to Roach. “No more treasure hunts. Just us, the sword, and the bastard in the bone mask.”
The sky of Tir ná Lia was a bruised purple. Eredin stood atop a obsidian dais, his great sword, Caranthir, pulsing with cold magic.
“You delayed,” Eredin said, his voice echoing like a tomb door closing. “I expected you months ago. Did the little errands distract you, Witcher?”