He wills himself calm. Wills himself unruffled, unbothered, nonchalant. His will, it seems, isn't as strong as it used to be. Or perhaps it's tuned to bigger things, leaving this little detail to worm its way under his skin and burrow around.

"Your cursemark." He lifts his hand, turns it to indicate the mark they're already discussing, as if it still needs any introduction. "It might not look like mine, but you'll have it somewhere."

And here that troubled will caves enough to pinch his brow. Rather than say anything meaningful, he buys himself one last stretch of seconds. Commits them to finding out how big a gap he has to fill. "Zadza? Duchozwierz?"