Fingers pad into skin, blunt nails scraping beneath shoulderblade. A familiar heat. Something tugs at the edge of perception. Energy, life, questing out. Swollen vessels smooth, locked muscles ease. Innervation. Indiscriminate. He doesn't dare any more, when she looks up at him with bones still half-smashed —

He doesn't need to. Strength swivels from wing to joint, flexes along the massed lines of tendon, anchored more solidly than even Viktor's strange apparatus. That spell had wanted to draw his brace inward, bury metal beneath flesh. This, altogether different. Already woven whole.

"It's done," Or Isaac expects that he would have made it much worse. She doesn't need that particular detail. "I don't know how we undo it, but it's done."

Near as he can tell. Isaac knows the difference between abomination and abnormality, and this falls altogether outside. It reminds of Minrathous, of Seere, mutations beyond mortal scale.

Warmth ebbs. His palm lifts. He thinks to linger and thinks better of it; instead pulls the robe up, arranged careful about her neck, around the wide lift of wings. It's a cold morning. This is the sort of thing that people get killed for, and,

And no one dies. Not yet.