Ludwig's weapon quivered as it rose over his shoulder. Oathcarver gleamed in the bloody hue of the moonlight, its curved edge soaked in the dim reflection of marrow-white sand. In his left hand, Durandal had taken its compact scythe form again, flickering like the final breath of a torch before extinguishment. Both weapons pulsed faintly with power. Not just mana, not just wrath, but purpose.
The cocoon before him shifted, a tremble that was almost subtle, almost imperceptible, but not quite. It seemed to breathe in defiance, as if to whisper through every vein and seam that he could try, could dare, but it would not break. Its surface shimmered faintly with the membrane of something not quite flesh, not quite wood. Something ancient, clinging to life like a second skin.
But Ludwig had changed. Not just in strength. In conviction.
