The cadence of the Lich's words was resigned, as one reading out the terms of a contract that could not be rescinded.
Ludwig frowned, dragging the mace behind him, letting it carve a furrow in the dirt. "I don't tire."
The furrow ran straight for several paces, a black seam unspooling in the dim.
"Do you think only the dead are tireless?" the Lich asked. "There are gods who never rest. Demons who never breathe. You, boy, are something between. Neither living nor dead. And that's why this place reacts to you."
The last sentence quieted as it ended, as if the forest might overhear the definition and disagree.
Ludwig's expression darkened as understanding crept in. "It's the damn heart."
He did not curse the heart with heat. He said it as one observes rain sliding through a crack, certain it will widen the gap with time.
He touched his chest. The faint thrum beneath his fingers felt heavier here, almost as if it was listening.
