Dark, violet eyes look out from the depths. Raven-black locks fall onto shoulders in cascades, gleam, reflect light like a peacock’s feathers, writhing and rippling with every movement . . . ‘The swords,’ Coral reminded him, quietly and scathingly. ‘You were supposed to be thinking about the swords.’ The water swirled, the black-haired, violet-eyed woman disappeared in the vortex. Geralt sighed softly. ‘Think about the swords,’ hissed Lytta. ‘Not her!’
