Blood of Elves (The Witcher, #1)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

But I, little Ciri, do not recognise collective responsibility, I do not feel the need to expiate the events which took place half a century before my birth.

No, Triss had not desired to take him away from Yennefer. As a matter of fact, her friend was more important to her than he was. But her brief relationship with the witcher had not disappointed. She had found what she was looking for—emotions in the form of guilt, anxiety and pain. His pain.

Ciri staggered, trying to find her balance. And failed. The witcher jumped. Triss raised her hand, opening her mouth to utter a formula for levitation. She knew she couldn’t do it in time. She knew that Geralt would not make it. It was impossible. Geralt did make it. He was forced down to the ground, thrown on his knees and back. He fell. But he did not let go of Ciri.

You’re the ones who oppressed the non-humans, would not allow them their way of life, so now you pay for it.

“And the girl?” Yarpen indicated Ciri with his head as she wriggled under the sheepskin. “Yours?” “Mine,” he replied without thinking. “Mine, Zigrin.”