Annie wishes she had enough control over her seasonal powers to let her help rebuild things, but she doesn’t. The magic of this place is strange, slippery, and wielding it is like trying to grab an angry cat while blindfolded. She can’t help the pang of jealousy-frustration-fear she feels when she sees a wall come together out of the corner of her eye, as though that sort of reconstruction is easy.

She watches the wall rebuild itself, eyes narrow. Just like every other time she sees someone use a seasonal power, she mentally files away everything she can about the magic.

Turning a little more, not even trying to be subtle about her staring, she sees the person wielding the ability.

Oh.

Recognition comes fast, and she’s moving before she’s even really registered who it is, but that doesn’t matter because this is Bertholdt standing there. Bertholdt who is supposed to be dead, eaten by Armin, another casualty of war.

She’s next to him before she can think better of it, and then she closes her fist and swings it straight at his nose.