[ to kill them, as many as i can find — the inquisition has always been full of fucking lunatics. he would have had better success with another. but another wouldn't have had his blood. he doubts he's forgotten about the phylactery.

sooner or later,

the robes are black and roomy, conservative to cover a wound or six. they'd drown leander, and too many questions would be asked. isaac drags a pair from the wardrobe, takes the moment to meet lexie's eye. rare now that his own expression doesn't contort (wry, dry, any synonym you'd like for 'asshole'), just stills and sobers. intent: ]

There's only so much magic can do. [ he's seen to both ends of that. ] He needs rest now, water. Somewhere with a door that locks. It can't be the Infirmary.

[ they'll know this wasn't some alley debt. the cuts on his arms are too distinctive, the scars too memorable, and what a strange beating it all would compose. the carta are more likely to break a knee. ]

His room's in the other tower, or I can pay an inn,

[ none of it's as secure as a set of hightown apartments or a recently-bereaved estate, but there's colin to consider. there are the servants. he runs a hand over the absence of stubble, glances leander: a spasm of interior revulsion, a nod that's either gratitude or assent. he drapes the cloth over sheets and steps closer, cautious. for all their closeness, he's awkward of it now. a man hauling quarry free of dogs' teeth, still wary of its own.

he isn't strong enough for a bridal carry. leander's going to need to lean. ]