A quiet chuckle, at that, and the point of the knife bites into the palm of his hand. If Cosima weren't without her glasses, she might be able to see the knots of scarring there, the result of years of blood magic. He lets it well in his palm and then roll over his skin, blood peeling over the curl of his hand, and then his wrist.

"I am a son of Tevinter, sworn to the glory of our Elder One. I care not a whit for your greater good. I serve, and I learn. You will not benefit from what we do, and you've no right to it. You are worldless, without magic, below even the most base of slaves. This is the blood of ages, of a noble line ever dedicated to the greatness of our Imperium."

His other hand hovers over her injured arm, healing magics enough to stop the bleeding and knit together her flesh, but stopping short of healing the fractures. "You may have the luxury of a swift death if you do not test me, child."