If Palamedes had been a certain kind of necromancer—say, Ianthe Tridentarius—then he might have suggested seeking out a likely victim himself. If he had been Silas Octakiseron, he might have explained soul siphoning to Clarke, or maybe just gotten to work without a word. Even Harrow might have been tempted by either option.

But Palamedes is decidedly not that kind of necromancer. He would never even admit that either idea even crossed his mind—though they did for a moment as he met Clarke’s gaze.

“You’re right, of course.” He offers a faint smile. There’s a small thumbprint of blood on one of his glasses. “I had thought that the captain’s powers might be weaker in this secondary illusion, but maybe that’s not the case after all.”