He has known surgeons to open patient wounds, a practice which allows smooth retrieval, — though such thoughts rush from Daithi's head in an instant. He arches against the cot, gritting his teeth, spearing tension through his temples. His heel presses into the pallet; his knuckles whiten into tight fists. His cheeks pale.

The pain is quick, though, coming and going in a flash, and Daithi relaxes in increments, an unfurling of muscle that starts in his jaw and hand. He remains still, then, soft and pliable neath Brigham's fingers, watching the tent ceiling in silence. The tug of the enchanter's magic, a gentle pull against the anchor, is growing familiar.