webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The morning sun hung heavy over Corvo Bianco, casting long, lazy shadows across the stone courtyard. A thick, sweet scent of ripening grapes mingled with the aroma of freshly baked rosemary bread lying on the table. Geralt stepped out into the warmth, his boots crunching quietly against the flagstones. He felt the weight of his own body, the absence of familiar knots of scar tissue beneath his tunic, and a lingering, phantom ache that refused to settle into this newfound softness.

At the stone table, the scene looked like a painting born of a fever dream. Vesemir sat with his back to the villa, his grey hair neatly brushed, his old, sturdy hands gripping the stem of a crystal glass. He poured golden wine with a slow, deliberate grace, the liquid catching the light as it cascaded into Yennefer's glass. Yennefer watched him, her violet eyes soft, a rare and unsettling look of contentment etched onto her features. Across from them, Ciri tossed her head back, her laughter ringing out against the ancient stone walls, bright and piercing. It was a sound that belonged to a girl who had never known the biting cold of the path or the shadow of the Hunt.

I pulled out a chair, the stone scraping against the ground with a sound that seemed too loud in the morning air. No one looked up immediately, caught in the rhythm of their own artificial ease. The wine decanter rattled against the table as I sat.

"You are late for the harvest talk, Geralt," Vesemir said, his voice carrying that familiar, paternal grit, though it lacked the underlying edge of caution I expected to hear. He pushed a glass toward me, the amber liquid swirling.

I didn't reach for the wine. My eyes traced the line of Ciri’s jaw, the way her skin glowed with health, devoid of the jagged reminders of our winters in Kaer Morhen. "We were talking about the old vineyards in Toussaint," Ciri said, wiping a stray tear of laughter from her cheek. "You remember, the ones the Duke claimed were cursed because the vines grew thorns in the shape of daggers?"

She looked at me, her expression open, waiting for me to join the game. I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach, a persistent, gnawing suspicion that this entire slice of life was brittle, like ice about to crack under the slightest pressure. I turned my head, scanning the perimeter of the courtyard, though I knew what I would find: stone walls, blooming flowers, and the silence of a peaceful estate.

"The war," I said, the words coming out flat and heavy, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere like a blade. "What happened to the front in the east? Did the Nilfgaardian advance stall at the Yaruga, or did they push through into the heartlands?"

Ciri blinked, her hand pausing mid-air as she reached for a piece of bread. The laughter didn't die instantly—it seemed to linger for a fraction of a second, ghosting the air before dissolving into a puzzled silence. Yennefer rested her glass on the table, her fingers tracing the rim. She didn't look at me, but her posture shifted, becoming marginally more rigid, a subtle hardening of her silhouette against the morning light.

"Geralt," Yennefer started, her tone clipped, the sharpness I knew so well surfacing beneath the mask of domestic tranquility. "The war has been over for months. You are obsessing over details that have no bearing on the wine in your glass or the sun on your face. Drink your wine. It is cooling."

"The war feels like it was never fought," I pressed, leaning forward. The table felt cold beneath my palms, the stone devoid of the history I remembered—the history of blood and fire that I could still smell in my memory. "I remember the camps. I remember the smoke of burned villages. None of you act like that ever happened. Ciri, tell me. When was the last time you drew your sword for anything other than a training bout?"

Ciri let out a sharp, dismissive huff of air, looking over at Vesemir as if I were a drunkard telling a particularly tired joke. "You’re doing it again, Geralt. Bringing up the ghosts. There is no war here. There is only Corvo Bianco and the autumn harvest. Must you always be the one to sour the mood just because you’ve had a few restless nights?"

Vesemir let out a soft, long sigh, his shoulders sagging with what appeared to be weariness, though his eyes remained shielded. He reached over, patting my arm, his touch heavy and solid. "Rest, lad. The world didn't end. We are here. That is all that matters. Stop trying to find fractures in a foundation that is perfectly sound."

I looked from Vesemir to Yennefer, searching their faces for any crack in the facade. Everything was too smooth, too perfect, as if someone had scrubbed the timeline clean of everything that made us who we were. They were comfortable in this lie, this forced serenity that felt like it had been stitched onto reality to keep us from looking at the frayed edges of the truth. I felt a surge of bile in my throat, a rejection of this peaceful, shallow existence.

"I am not a prisoner," I said quietly, the words feeling heavy in the air.

"No one said you were," Yennefer replied, her voice cooling by several degrees. She finally met my eyes, her violet gaze intense, searching for a sign that I would finally concede to the comfort of the moment. She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "We are simply asking you to leave the battlefield in the past where it belongs. Stay here, with us. Is that such a terrible prospect?"

I looked at Ciri, who had turned back to the bread, her focus pointedly elsewhere, refusing to acknowledge the dissonance I was trying to describe. She was playing along with the comfort, choosing the illusion over the jagged, painful truth of what we had survived. I stood up, the chair legs scraping harshly against the stones, a sound that seemed to signal the absolute end of our shared morning. I felt alienated, a stranger standing in the middle of a family that didn't know how to mourn what they had forgotten. I stood there, looking down at them, the distance between us growing with every breath I took.

The morning sun hung heavy over Corvo Bianco, casting long, lazy shadows across the stone courtyard. A thick, sweet scent of ripening grapes mingled with the aroma of freshly baked rosemary bread lying on the table. Geralt stepped out into the warmth, his boots crunching quietly against the flagstones. He felt the weight of his own body, the absence of familiar knots of scar tissue beneath his tunic, and a lingering, phantom ache that refused to settle into this newfound softness.

At the stone table, the scene looked like a painting born of a fever dream. Vesemir sat with his back to the villa, his grey hair neatly brushed, his old, sturdy hands gripping the stem of a crystal glass. He poured golden wine with a slow, deliberate grace, the liquid catching the light as it cascaded into Yennefer's glass. Yennefer watched him, her violet eyes soft, a rare and unsettling look of contentment etched onto her features. Across from them, Ciri tossed her head back, her laughter ringing out against the ancient stone walls, bright and piercing. It was a sound that belonged to a girl who had never known the biting cold of the path or the shadow of the Hunt.

I pulled out a chair, the stone scraping against the ground with a sound that seemed too loud in the morning air. No one looked up immediately, caught in the rhythm of their own artificial ease. The wine decanter rattled against the table as I sat.

"You are late for the harvest talk, Geralt," Vesemir said, his voice carrying that familiar, paternal grit, though it lacked the underlying edge of caution I expected to hear. He pushed a glass toward me, the amber liquid swirling.

I didn't reach for the wine. My eyes traced the line of Ciri’s jaw, the way her skin glowed with health, devoid of the jagged reminders of our winters in Kaer Morhen. "We were talking about the old vineyards in Toussaint," Ciri said, wiping a stray tear of laughter from her cheek. "You remember, the ones the Duke claimed were cursed because the vines grew thorns in the shape of daggers?"

She looked at me, her expression open, waiting for me to join the game. I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach, a persistent, gnawing suspicion that this entire slice of life was brittle, like ice about to crack under the slightest pressure. I turned my head, scanning the perimeter of the courtyard, though I knew what I would find: stone walls, blooming flowers, and the silence of a peaceful estate.

"The war," I said, the words coming out flat and heavy, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere like a blade. "What happened to the front in the east? Did the Nilfgaardian advance stall at the Yaruga, or did they push through into the heartlands?"

Ciri blinked, her hand pausing mid-air as she reached for a piece of bread. The laughter didn't die instantly—it seemed to linger for a fraction of a second, ghosting the air before dissolving into a puzzled silence. Yennefer rested her glass on the table, her fingers tracing the rim. She didn't look at me, but her posture shifted, becoming marginally more rigid, a subtle hardening of her silhouette against the morning light.

"Geralt," Yennefer started, her tone clipped, the sharpness I knew so well surfacing beneath the mask of domestic tranquility. "The war has been over for months. You are obsessing over details that have no bearing on the wine in your glass or the sun on your face. Drink your wine. It is cooling."

"The war feels like it was never fought," I pressed, leaning forward. The table felt cold beneath my palms, the stone devoid of the history I remembered—the history of blood and fire that I could still smell in my memory. "I remember the camps. I remember the smoke of burned villages. None of you act like that ever happened. Ciri, tell me. When was the last time you drew your sword for anything other than a training bout?"

Ciri let out a sharp, dismissive huff of air, looking over at Vesemir as if I were a drunkard telling a particularly tired joke. "You’re doing it again, Geralt. Bringing up the ghosts. There is no war here. There is only Corvo Bianco and the autumn harvest. Must you always be the one to sour the mood just because you’ve had a few restless nights?"

Vesemir let out a soft, long sigh, his shoulders sagging with what appeared to be weariness, though his eyes remained shielded. He reached over, patting my arm, his touch heavy and solid. "Rest, lad. The world didn't end. We are here. That is all that matters. Stop trying to find fractures in a foundation that is perfectly sound."

I looked from Vesemir to Yennefer, searching their faces for any crack in the facade. Everything was too smooth, too perfect, as if someone had scrubbed the timeline clean of everything that made us who we were. They were comfortable in this lie, this forced serenity that felt like it had been stitched onto reality to keep us from looking at the frayed edges of the truth. I felt a surge of bile in my throat, a rejection of this peaceful, shallow existence.

"I am not a prisoner," I said quietly, the words feeling heavy in the air.

"No one said you were," Yennefer replied, her voice cooling by several degrees. She finally met my eyes, her violet gaze intense, searching for a sign that I would finally concede to the comfort of the moment. She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "We are simply asking you to leave the battlefield in the past where it belongs. Stay here, with us. Is that such a terrible prospect?"

I looked at Ciri, who had turned back to the bread, her focus pointedly elsewhere, refusing to acknowledge the dissonance I was trying to describe. She was playing along with the comfort, choosing the illusion over the jagged, painful truth of what we had survived. I stood up, the chair legs scraping harshly against the stones, a sound that seemed to signal the absolute end of our shared morning. I felt alienated, a stranger standing in the middle of a family that didn't know how to mourn what they had forgotten. I stood there, looking down at them, the distance between us growing with every breath I took. «The Perfect Lie», part 2. Fanfiction — The Witcher.

Breakfast with the Family. The Perfect Lie — The Witcher fanfiction | Fanfica

Breakfast with the Family

Toss a Coin

Geralt opens his eyes to a perfect morning at Corvo Bianco. Yennefer sleeps beside him, the vineyard basks in golden sun, and not a single monster lurks in the shadows. But his mind is scarred with memories of war, the Wild Hunt, and a world drowned in blood — none of which anyone else recalls. Every smile feels rehearsed, every peaceful moment a lie. Is this a wish granted, a dream he refuses to wake from, or a prison crafted by something far more sinister? The closer he looks, the more the cracks in paradise begin to show.

The Perfect Lie — Breakfast with the Family

Parte 2: Breakfast with the Family