[She stays quiet for a moment, as if to convey understanding. A subtle web of manipulation, a game she's played too many times to count, perhaps played unfairly against an overly emotional child desperately seeking approval. Then again, no one had ever gotten anywhere in life by playing fair, and maybe some twisted part of Seviilia missed having an impressionable mind nearby.

Her eyes flick upward, pointedly, and then back down to her own arms.]

My scars are pretty, in comparison to most. The magic holds together what some might consider irreparable damage. They picked me apart like vultures when they killed me. I was still alive for most of it. They went for my throat last.

[To accent her point, she rolls down her tight collared tunic to show the runes at the high point where her jugular vein ought to be.]

They tried to kill us, but here we are. Scars are not marks of your failure. They are a mark of your enemy's failure.