A tremor passed beneath Ludwig's boots, subtle at first, then sharp enough to send a web of fractures skittering across the floor. From the remains of the Queen's body, heat still surged, black ichor steaming off her sundered bark-flesh. Yet the twitching had not stopped. The roots were stirring with a disjointed purpose. Her limbs, now half-charred stumps, convulsed in erratic patterns as though something deeper within the husk was testing the reach of its new skin.
Ludwig said nothing. He held Celine close, chains taut with tension, feeling her weight growing heavier in his arms, not because of her condition but because her muscles were beginning to resist. The kind of resistance that didn't come from confusion. Her body remembered what it was. The twitch in her left hand became a curl of her fingers. Her breath, shallow and irregular, carried the faint sound of a growl caught between her ribs.
