“Look at that,” she murmurs, a bit of gallows humour, twisting her wrist to display the scars that still linger as she's filled out and cleaned up, “we match.”

His will heal, and that's enough to be glad of the win. But she casts a look back over her shoulder, acknowledging—

“Yeah, shocking amount of live Templars. One of 'em to explain themselves, for as much as we expect 'em to do so honestly. I figure I've got ways, if theirs doesn't work.” But given that Flint seemed to intend not to let them kill the lot and have done with it, she'd preferred not to voice the thought in earshot of their prisoners, all things considered.