"I've never fought for my life before," he offers conversationally, for all he understands this is a subtle deceit: he has offered objections and opposition, he has stood his ground. He has not, perhaps, blooded a man for his own gains. His creatures have usually succeeded better in that.

"Mostly I've run or sat very still."

But now they're moving, circulating fluidly through the corridors, as if they're veterans of the arena and not casual amateurs who've lucked into survival. He offers Jacob a light pat on his shoulder, congratulatory —

And cringes, when his palm comes away blood-stained again. Really. "You may wish to... shower."