There is in the wild white of his eyes, widening, the only signal that he has startled — that he has acknowledged the novelty of Hendrik's question. Half claw, bone peering from the side, and the rest of his fingers untarnished — his hand drifts to his face, where he peels away one bandage stretch tenderly to show beneath an ungainly, if settled patch of burn scars, the tissue yet raw.

"It... cannot. Heal." And his fingers drift down to his throat after, once more removing then returning bandage to its post, only easing it long enough so Hendrik might spot the burns that likely shattered his throat and speech thereafter. Dozens of other strips litter his body — the signs of long burn. "It... healed. Already."

This is as far as magic and healing craft and progress his recovery. So be it, then.