The names of the fourteen. He read the slowly, from the top, and before him appeared the faces of those he had known. The chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling for no reason, looking like a teenager. He had liked her. And she had liked him.

‘Hang in there, Geralt. Don’t give up’, repeated Triss Merigold endlessly. 'Hang in there. Don’t die … Please don’t die …’
'Ciri…’
'Don’t talk. I’ll soon get you out of here. Hold on … Damn I’m too weak, by the gods …’
'Yennefer … I have to-’
'You don’t have to do anything! You can’t do anything! Hang in there. Don’t give up … Don’t faint … Don’t die please …’
She dragged him across the floor, which was littered with bodies. He saw his chest and belly covered in blood, which was streaming from his nose. He saw his leg. It was twisted at a strange angle and seemed much shorter than the intact one. He didn’t feel any pain. He felt cold. His entire body was cold, numb and foreign. He wanted to puke.
'Hold on, Geralt. Help is coming from Aretuza. It’ll soon be here…’
'Dijkstra … If Dijkstra gets his hands on me … I’m finished …’
Triss swore. Desperately.