Thomas's spectral form shimmered to life before him, the familiar pale-golden glow humming softly like a candle flame caught in hesitation.
"You're treating them rather nicely," Thomas said, his tone as dry as ever.
Ludwig let out a tired breath—not a sigh, exactly. More like a release of weight he couldn't put down.
"I have to," he replied. "I might need them later."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like your usual pragmatism. What's eating at you?"
Ludwig didn't answer right away. He stared down at his hands—his undead fingers flexing slowly. They still held strength. Still moved with purpose. But the pressure of limitation sat on his shoulders like a chain.
"I've put myself in a tight spot," he finally said. "I can't use my weapon. I can't use my magic. Against the Reavers, it's all useless."
"Not all magic," Thomas said, floating closer. "What about Van Dijk's loot? Anything useful in there?"
