“Your medallion, Geralt,” said Angoulême, standing beside him. “Eh?” He cleared his throat, for his throat was tight. “What did you say?” “Your silver medallion with the wolf. Schirrú had it. Now you’ve lost it forever. It’ll melt in that heat.” “Too bad,” he said a moment later, looking into the flaminika’s cornflower-blue eyes. “I’m no longer a witcher. I’ve stopped being a witcher. I’ve learned that now. On Thanedd, in the Tower of the Seagull. In Brokilon. On the bridge on the Yaruga. In the cave beneath Gorgon. And here, in Myrkvid Forest. No, I’m not a witcher now. So I’ll have to learn
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