The next motion of Marcus's hands does not bring pain, but numbness. Not where pain is present, but from the extremities, creeping up through Edgard's body from the soles of his feet, the joints of his knees, the tips of his fingers. Magical Petrification, and it sounds like the brittle crack of stone if he flexes against it. If he glances down at his how hands, concrete grey has creeped as far as his knuckles from where he's touched the ground.

He can still move, though standing would be difficult. He can still talk.

"Alright," Marcus says, like he is agreeing to something. "Then tell me why you're in my room. The truth, aye."

He has other questions. Like who sent this man, what was he looking for, what does he want. Paranoid questions, simmering ready at the base of his skull, but: one step at a time.