She stares at Geralt, but sees nothing in his face but calm belief and determination. Beyond him, Lan Wangji is a soothing, steady presence, his expression full of quiet support.

This is how it has to be, she realizes. Even if she were to bring them to the inn, the Hunt would still find her eventually. She'd still need to run.

They have to end it. She reaches first for Geralt's hand, then for Lan Wangji's, her own trembling, and stands between them a moment, fixing Kaer Morhen in her mind's eye. The crumbling walls, the scent of the river below, the clean bite of the cold air, Vesemir's beloved face.

Ciri breathes deep and closes her eyes, focusing. There's a moment of stillness, and then a flash of green light, and then nothing left of the three who had stood there but the mist slowly swirling to replace them.