Only Harrow the Ninth, she thinks, would need a theorem to understand friendship.

Self-pity. Nauseating. Useless.

She closes her eyes, then opens them again, having looked down to her journal. "It must be one piece of becoming a Lyctor. There was a stone tablet... glowing letters. I copied everything down and locked it back up."

"They were living chambers," she says. "For a necromancer and their cav. Funny to think about the Lyctors having cavaliers." For a moment, a vital insight swims through the turbid waters of her exhausted brain, but it escapes.