It draws her back, heels grinding hard, flat, into the wooden boards, braced shoulder width apart, arms tense, crooked, a snapped sharp line in her shoulders that offset against to how she rolls forward towards him, in one long stride that smooths itself out.

On another creature, she might be moving after something she means to eat, to hunt and stalk and bring down. On her, it is just that same way she approaches everything. Direct, mean in the mouth and hard in the eyes. Not so much a threat as who she is when the pretence is stripped, gloriously, back, and she doesn't have to sit on ceremony in his company.

What relief he was.

"I'm immortal. In a matter quite different to your Corypheus. I can still die. But mortal wounds will not kill me. I can heal... in seconds. Nor, do I age."