Ludwig's focus was absolute. The rhythm of his blades was no longer measured. He wasn't counting strokes. He wasn't reserving stamina not that he would ever need to. He hacked as if the Queen's flesh was the only thing keeping his own body upright. Every movement was a decision made a thousand times in the span of a heartbeat.
Celine was at the other end of the queen's body, and he'll make sure to reach there even if he were to break his own arms doing so.
Durandal split deeper into the muscle of her back, now hot and sticky with what passed for blood, while Oathcarver ripped ragged grooves through root and vein, pulling them apart in curling strips like meat cleaved from bone. Bark split. Fibrous flesh tore. Her body heaved with each strike, but never managed to rise in defense.
