In the heart of a battlefield, Ciri, fueled by the thrill of combat, feels an insatiable hunger. She finds Geralt, his body a canvas of war wounds. She presses against him, her hands exploring his chiseled abs. "I need you, Geralt," she growls, pushing him to the ground. She mounts him, her hips moving in a wild, uninhibited rhythm. Around them, the chaos of war fades as she takes her pleasure, her body marked by the dirt and blood of battle, her cries of ecstasy echoing the clash of steel and magic.