Impossibly, his own mind struggles through the constriction of latent violence to offer up a memory of: finding a mixing bowl on Satinalia. Marcus says, "I returned it to the kitchens," in such a baffled way that his voice is almost expressive, rather than the steely even-toned edge he normally adopts.

His hands relax. Immediately, that odd stiffness in Edgard's joints leak out as the spell releases him, that grey tinge to fingertips simply vanishing as though it were never there.

Anger roils, still. There is still an offense to answer for. But not one deserving of death. Marcus isn't sure what answer there ought to be, but he takes a few steps back to give Edgard space to stand, still with the keyed in tension of a cornered wolf, standing between Edgard and the door. Still with that trace of smoke in the air.