"That… took time," Cassian muttered as he pushed himself upright. His whole body felt stiff, like he'd been lying in one position for days. He stretched his remaining arm, wincing at how strangely light he felt on one side.
Meanwhile, his other arm was already regenerating—muscle fibers knitting, bone crawling back into shape—visible to the naked eye but sluggish thanks to the curse Brigid had slapped on him.
Honestly, she hadn't cut it anything like he expected. Neatly? No. She'd taken the entire thing apart like she was prepping some exotic dish: peeling the veins aside, popping the joint cleanly, unraveling muscle with surgical enthusiasm. When he'd asked why she was doing it like that, she'd just told him to shut up.
He watched now as she gently placed his severed arm into a wooden box humming with mana. She closed the lid with unsettling care, then stored it away in her ring like it was a keepsake.
