He doesn't number them. If you start counting, have to start asking what counts — but it's different, every time, watching someone die. Been uglier than this. It's sure been kinder, too. Hair of his neck lifts when Eloise bowls wailing onto Olivier. Like spying a ghost, something you ought to recognize. Uncanny,

Hélas.

Cedric brushes eyelids down, smears the blade across sash. Red launders.

"Thanks," Dull, shaking his head clear. "Sorry for —"

What, volunteering him to failure? He isn't sorry. If there'd been any chance, time would have mattered.

"— Well, thanks. For taking care of her."

Rina's head thunks again, softer, as Cedric sets her aside. The room is all figures, directions, motion; he follows Strange's gaze down, to the glassy earth. The anchors swallow an arm — learned that one a bit late. Is this how it eats? Magic calcifiying, along mineral vein?

(Been a while since he's seen a Red.)

He squints to examine the hall: A mystery they'll soon be ushered from.

"What's this look like t'you?"

The Crossroads, a ruin. A wound. Cavernous and rent into shocking new shape; else a very old one.