“What?” Palamedes says in almost the exact same moment as Gideon. “God and all his Lyctors at your disposal and you choose Ianthe Tridentarius.” This observation he mutters under his breath, mostly for his own benefit. No one could deny that Ianthe had surprised all of them in the end, but to Palamedes she’s still a second-rate flesh magician that no one should trust anywhere near their brain.

At least the mediocre handiwork makes it easy to see where they cut into her before. The scar itself is angry, hair grown tufted around it. “I’m going to shave your head, Harrow,” he warns. “From there, I will need your expertise to remove your temporal bone. We don’t exactly have the necessary tools available otherwise.”