It looks like it'll have to be by his own hand after all. It was wishful thinking to imagine that some shambling undead soldier might finish her off, not when she's survived so far. Morgan had almost forgotten what she looks like when she fights, that economy of motion, the way she swings Falchion so as to make it seem weightless. He can't let that memory fade completely; it's valuable data, all of it is — everything he'd learned about them in the course of his adventures with them, until Master Grima had awakened in his mind again, it was all data to incorporate into his tactical matrix. It would have been a waste to simply forget all of that, even if he'd had to prise the sentimentality away from every memory himself. It had been like pulling out his own teeth, one at a time, but it had been necessary.

He can't afford to draw this out. She knows how he fights, too — if he can't end this quickly, she'll be able to tell it's him. He tells himself that that, too, is only a tactical concern, even as the sound of her voice cuts through his mind like a knife. Would she still extend him that mercy if she knew just who she was offering it to?

He seems to hesitate, like he's considering her offer of parley, his hand stilling and the spell beginning to die out. But he's already gathering lightning in his other hand, and in the next instant he shifts his weight and hurls the spell at her without restraint, aiming low.