Something twists in Strange’s chest, instinctive discomfort at such overt Andrastianism on display, the way her mouth shapes an instinctive call-and-response to the Canticle of Trials. Too many memories of his parents and their useless platitudes, familiar pointless words ringing in his ears and tightening his jaw. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

But he wipes off his hands against his trousers and moves a little closer to the woman’s side. He doesn’t even know her name. He asks it.

“Eloise,” she says, distracted. And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost —

“You know this is kinder,” the sorcerer says, with all the placid comfort he can muster into his voice, his hand against Eloise’s shoulder. She’s not gonna make it, doc.

“I am not alone,” Eloise answers, shaky. Her own breath trembles, unsteady. “Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here. Draw— Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand and be forgiven.”

Magic gathers at Eloise’s hands where she cradles Rina’s ruined bloodied jaw, a spark to safely send her off when she goes; Strange hovers by her side and watches, attentive.

Cedric has the knife.