He is not a man who touches people, or whom people often touch, and in this moment it does not matter. Lan Wangji moves to Geralt's side and puts a hand on his arm.

"We cannot yet be sure," he manages, barely audible. His mouth tastes of dust and ash and remembered blood, the bile of an all-too-familiar desperation rising.

("Wei Ying!")

"It could..." But he finds that he cannot continue. Lying is forbidden, and false hope the worst of all.