Leander sways with the ship's motion, watches the templar's retreating shape. The place where Barrow had grasped his shoulder is a heavy spot in his awareness, different than the lingering ache between his legs but no less offensive. He'd like to break both his wrists, he decides, in a way that cannot be undone—

Isaac's voice calls him back. Were this some other fight, Leander would laugh—some echo of that even appears, a momentary twitch of his mouth—but the warning's content lands too close for that. His eyebrows hint at some vulnerable shape before he catches it, forces himself impassive, redirects his gaze to some neutral point and wipes at the blood near his mouth.