The answer clearly amused Mark.
New limbs formed from the sphere. They were not veins this time, but segmented blades unfolding like insect wings, each edge vibrating hard enough to distort the air around them. They struck all at once.
Diane moved purely on instinct.
She spun, blocked, ducked, and slashed, but she was too slow. One blade tore through her shoulder, another ripped across her thigh, and a third slammed into her side with enough force to send her crashing to the floor.
Her scythe skidded from her hand and clattered several meters away.
Her body refused to move.
The sphere hovered above her, looming, its surface pulsing in rhythm with her ragged heartbeat.
"Stay down," it murmured. "Accept it, Diane. You are a failure, just like your mother always said when you failed to meet her expectations."
