Laxin was making an unholy noise somewhere between a sob, a laugh, and a deflating bagpipe.
"I have… never… done anything… correctly before this moment," he gasped, clutching his own face like it might escape from joy overload.
The fused skeleton straightened, runes pulsing like twin heartbeats. It rotated its wrists experimentally—blade flashing, wand humming—and then set its feet in a stance that screamed ready to ruin someone's day with artistic precision.
Fenric regarded it with the same enthusiasm a glacier has for seasonal holidays.
"…Acceptable."
Aria almost burst. Laxin actually did, a squeaky squeal escaping.
"He said it! The A-word! That's basically praise!"
"Do not celebrate," Fenric said, cleaving their joy in half like a well-managed budget cut.
"This construct is stable in theory. You will now prove it in practice."
Aria blinked. "Practice… how?"
