"I am not to be trifled with!" she roared as her body reconstructed to a functional status.
The declaration echoed across the ravaged ground, but the force behind it rang hollow. Flesh dragged itself back together in uneven layers, muscle knitting with a wet, nauseating sound that carried far too clearly through the still air.
Bone snapped into place not with grace, but with urgency, as if whatever power was forcing the reconstruction was afraid it might run out of time. Her posture wavered as she straightened, shoulders twitching, knees locking a heartbeat too late. She stood, yes, but only just. The smell of scorched blood, of burning aura turned viscous, clung to her like a second skin.
"But you are," Ludwig replied, his voice carrying easily through the ruin, unhurried and almost conversational. "Without the invincible shell of your sister. What are you but gossamer flesh and brittle bones?"
