“The other problem, of course, is only the nature of a phylactery in and of itself. Thranduil's was made by a loyalist mage I can't put my hands on any more, and who almost certainly wouldn't approve of the nature of the experimentation—”

or, well, the purpose thereof. For some reason, she can't imagine selling Myrobalan on we need an edge on the Chantry. He'd grow his eyes back just to look at her incredulously, probably.

“It's blood magic. It's blood magic that the Chantry practises. Ergo, the number of mages who might know how to create one and who might be willing to participate is vanishingly small.” It's at this point that she'd very much like to make a joke about how she'd consider it a personal favour if he were to prioritise, as head healer, keeping Julius the fuck alive in case she needs him later— but he'd been the most squeamish and least keen, and the least likely to thank her for carelessly tying his name to what she and Wysteria had been up to.

A time might yet come, but not now.