Her fingers are going to Teren's throat before there is thought - and before there is time as it strictly passes for others. She is too fast, too smooth, too unerring. Sliding inside of her own skin like the being she does her best to pretend otherwise of being. Old and aching and made to fight without breath or pause. How the world goes cool, dark and fast.

Here to the steady horror of it, here the strength of it, that she can pick Teren up by her throat just like she weighed no more than a child. Holding her, dragging her, grief-stricken, eyes wide and furious, wet with the tears and rage of it.

But it doesn't happen. Her fingers close on nothing, grasp at smoke. Her teeth set hard against themselves. Another fucking spirit. "Whatever you are. Get. Out."